The Age of Fire
by LAST HORSEMAN
Summary: Oh ye weary adventurer, I can only hope that these intrepid tales inspire thou onwards. Hope can be found in hopelessness, and while many of these grand heroes fell in tragedy, their tales survive yet. Now if we are destined for disaster, if naught can change this path of loss, then why doth these tales liveth on? For the sake of the fallen, we carry on...
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fiction; all characters used are previously used in the Dark Souls game unless explicitly stated. I do not own any of these characters, all rights to From Software and Bandai Namco games. Please don't sue me.

* * *

_Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and seek to win-Sun Tzu_

When a soldier is in the heat of battle, they do not wonder why. This is left to their superiors, who would consider battle tactics or, dare say, ethical implications. A soldier will rely on instinct and a cool head, he who remains most calm will prevail over he who may be stronger or faster. Battle hardened veterans will try to reach and maintain this state of consciousness.

The everlasting dragons may have had a numerical disadvantage but this was lost in the chaos of battle. The knights were trying to follow their leader's example and use their lighting spears to prise open the dragon's scales. Some would kill them instantly but more often tough flesh was exposed and then closed up as the scales seemed to reform , growing back from seemingly nothing. Gwyn's forces were trying to push their advantage, his silver knights hacking, slashing, blocking and throwing. A torrent of sword-sized arrows threw themselves forward over the advancing phalanx, trying to create space for the front-line fighters. It was an exercise in futility. The brave and foolish knights had fire thrown back at them, cooking them alive in their own armour. The screams of the fallen echoed round the battlefield. When you see a fellow comrade dragging himself across scorched earth, desperately gagging for breath as his rapidly failing lungs still try to help him, you know the fight is going ill.

A dragon hits the solid ground, claws digging into the dirt to stop its momentum. These claws then turn on Lord Gwyn, the dragon trying to desperately trying to neutralise the enemy's leadership so that the army may crumble and fall apart under its own loss of morale. However, Gwyn edges himself away from the dragon, furiously swiping at what is now thin air. He considers running, a dragon with its scales still clad upon it is nigh on impossible to destroy. However, he knows this will kill his army if their general were to flee the field of battle. He prepares himself for another pressing barrage of attacks, hoping he can block or dodge the talons, but preparing for a martyr's death. After all, falling in the fight will spur his troops on whereas running can only drive back into the pit from whence they came.

A sharp crack is followed by a golden explosion bursting from the dragons left of its skull, blowing off the impenetrable scales. Gwyn seizes his opportunity and plunges his greatsword deep in the dragon's eye. Bypassing the skull, there is barely any resistance as the fiend's brain is permeated and killed almost instantly. His knights pause for a second, as do the dragons, soaking in this scene. The first dragon killed in melee combat. The knights rally around their leader and release a deafening roar, a mix of pride, hope, vengeance and anguish. Treading on the fallen whose bones are charred black, and the injured, paralysed and incapacitated as their blood seeps out around them, their pain felt in agonising screams, the knights march forward. And charge.

Seath the Scaleless sits atop a singed and bloody hill. Well, sits would not exactly be the right word, sitting implies that you have legs and buttocks to plant on the ground. Seath has neither of these things. His legs are contorted tentacles, forcing him to slither along the ground like the impure dragons, the serpents. As his name implies, he also has no scales, and thus is not immortal, causing him to be a shamed and ridiculed pariah of the dragons. An everlasting dragon that is not everlasting is akin to a fish that cannot swim. His pale white skin is stretched thin across his ribcage, and his wings seem soft and fragile. It's a surprise his wings even function. Seath was surely almost killed at birth to spare him the misery and illness of his life. If he was ever born. The Age of Ancients seemed to know no timeline, the dragons were seemingly never born. They just…were. The other dragons were quick to distance from him. He was a freak, an aberration that was so mutated he could surely not even be called dragon.

But Seath has his vengeance today. Clasping the Primordial Crystal in a bloodied hand, he yanks it from its sacred perch. The fog begins to subside. And suddenly, the everlasting dragons are not so everlasting anymore...

* * *

**The following in tales are not in chronological order, and rather follow one character at a time, giving an insight into their well known legends. **


	2. The Proud Lion

_I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion-Alexander the Great_

"Stand firm!" The command was lost in the din of battle amongst screaming men and dragon fire. Ornstein forced himself to press on, trying to act as an example for his knights to follow. Despite the high possibility of death and his troops falling around him, he managed to keep a level head. If he were to panic then they should just abandon all hope. The red plume atop his silver helmet stood as a beacon for the 1st Company, pushing them ever forward as long as he remained alive. Using the lightning imbued within himself and his spear, he focussed his energy into the weapon. Where the other knights, and even Lord Gwyn would throw their lightning spears, Ornstein could use his spear as a vessel, creating a much more accurate and powerful blow.

He fired into the smoke, a hopeful shot. He swivelled and faced his knights, most still stood behind him, trampling the bodies of their fallen brothers in a desperate effort to follow their leader. The ground was smouldering now as charred corpses fell and dragon fire missed. But unfazed, Ornstein continued still, until a shadow came forward. The everlasting dragon stood on all fours, leaning low to the ground. It flashed its wings behind Ornstein, a method of intimidation no doubt. "Keep calm, Ornstein, face its wrath." He muttered to himself. He _must _hold fast, or might as well fall on his own spear.

The dragon reared up, its mouth filling with a red glow that escaped through teeth as large as zweihanders. Ornstein braced himself and rolled out the way as the reptile released its molten terror, trying to track his movements. Its blaze was catching up with him as he was unable to strafe to the dragon's side fast enough. As their eyes met, the dragon ran out of fire, its mouth rapidly cooling. Ornstein saw his opportunity and ran straight at the dragon, sliding over the undergrowth, shattering twigs and scraping moss. The dragon used the ridiculous bulk of its head to try to crush Ornstein as he slid under it. Right onto his upturned spear.

But regardless, the dragon's scales would simply shatter the glorified 'dagger on a stick', and with it the fool who had dared face the might of the everlasting dragons. At least, that's what should have happened. Instead, the spear went so cleanly through the dragon's skull that Ornstein felt barely any resistance. No one could be sure, but the expression on the dragon's face seemed one of utter shock. Electricity danced round its now still head. Ornstein emerged from under the skull, similarly surprised. Even Lord Gwyn had not slain a dragon that was still clad in its scales. Ornstein yanked out his spear by the cross, bloodying the shaft as well. He was facing his men, the surprise hidden by the silver helmet. His red plume was flowing behind him. "To Ornstein, legend among mortals!" A cry went up from a single silver knight. "To Ornstein, DRAGONSLAYER!" And then all his company raised their weapons high in the air and went screaming at the top of their lungs and charged behind their commander. Filled with the infectious confidence of his men, Ornstein leapt at the nearest dragon, spear aloft.

* * *

Izalith was utterly unrecognisable. The majority of its grand buildings simply weren't there anymore, a chasm that led only to a blazing pool of viscous lava. Ornstein shuddered at the thought of all those innocents burning, going about their daily lives only to literally have the rug pulled from under them by a fool's errand. The few buildings that remained clung to the enormous cave's wall, holding on for dear life. Artorias was at his side, his own expression hidden by his helmet. The wolf and the lion. A force that has not been stopped before.

The first and second companies of silver knights had accompanied the Four Knights and Lord Gwyn to put an end to the endless spawn of monstrosities that was emerging from Izalith. Evidently, the Witch had failed in her attempt to rekindle the flame. Why would the flame when need rekindling, when it was supposedly so healthy? None but the original three Lords have ever been to the Kiln of the First Flame, so only they truly knew how many years the Age of Fire had left. As if he knew he were the subject of thought, Gwyn approached the Four Knights who were observing the carnage from the entrance to the dwelling of the Daughters of Chaos.

Only a thin sliver of steaming earth allowed passage across a similarly steaming lake of liquid fire. "My lord," Ornstein began, giving a curt bow of his head, "The path is only two soldiers wide. A traditional invasion would be unwise, so I suggest sending waves of soldiers, each commanded by one of the Four Knights. That way, we risk fewer casualties if something were to go wrong." Ornstein surprised even himself with the clinical manner that he spoke of disaster. They would be deaths of comrades he had trained and eaten with and had created deep bonds of fellowship with, soldiers he entrusted his life to. "A good suggestion Ornstein." Gwyn noted. _However, anything said before the word 'but' might as well stay unsaid. _"But I cannot risk overreaching ourselves. We fight together or die together." It was these sort of tactics that had won the Dragon War, but Ornstein imagined they would not be so fitting here. So easy it was to say, yet he knew Gwyn would immediately rue his decision if the worst should happen.

Tentatively, in a thin line stretching all the way along the pathway, the silver knights edged forward. Ornstein was near the front, Artorias maybe forty yards behind him, Ciaran ninety and Gough, struggling to fit on the narrow causeway, at the very back with a squadron of archers. The ground hissed at their footsteps as cold steel marched upon scorching ground, a simple act of physics or a warning from the very earth of Izalith? The first knights had barely made it to the stone safety of the other side when the rumbling was heard.

Out of the lava an atrocity burst, a colossal humanoid tower of pure heat. A row of appendages limed its back, contorting in rigid motions. The look on the creature's face was one of pure agony, a sad twist of features that suggested the poor thing was in serious pain. It shook itself around, deep moans spreading across the cavern. Magma was thrown high into the air by its thrashing, covering a group of silver knights. There were screams one moment, and then they were lost, replaced by a high pitched _ssssssshhh _as metal, tissue and bone uncongealed as one. Ornstein turned to the knights in front of him, urging them to run towards the lake's edge. But that too was blocked off, a goat headed demon standing in their way. The two knights at the front braced their shields and raised their spears, poised to strike. Unfortunately, the demon's reach was longer, swinging its dual greatswords in front of it, pressing on towards the line of soldiers. With no way to flank it, the knights could only stab hopelessly at air as they were knocked into the searing flames by the beast's swipes. Now trapped on the causeway by a crazed fire monster and a rampaging demon, the knights began to fall quickly. As the demon approached Ornstein, he held his own spear at the very end, hoping that he would reach his foe before the opposite happened. The blade's end struck the demon in its boned jaw, chipping off a piece. As it paused for a moment, Ornstein seized his opportunity, grabbing the cross on his spear and plunging it deep into his enemy's abdomen. Now that it was stuck, he used all his might to flip the spear upwards, sending the demon flying, its fall broken by a short dip in the lake from which it didn't surface.

With the path now clear, Ornstein charged forward, leaving a clear way for the knights to escape the other enormous entity terrorising them. However, the archers were already firing at the fire giant, drawing its ire away from the rest of the force. It responded almost immediately, slamming a large appendage from its back at the front rows of archers, crushing them beneath the incredible weight. However, it was slow to recover and pull back from its strike; Gough seized this opportunity and led his men over the arm, sprinting with archers wrapped in his arms. They arrived to join the rest of the army, but not before another attack from the behemoth that decimated the force near the rear. They didn't even have time to regroup as Gwyn hurried them down a flight of stairs that lead to a covered walkway that seemed precariously placed on pillars that reached right into the lava. A waterfall of magma prevented the giant from following them.

The walkway, however, was packed full of the goat headed demons they had previously encountered. Before they could organise themselves the enemy was upon the silver knights, throwing tactics straight out of the window. It was now a series of duels that relied purely on the ability of the individual soldier. Ornstein was cornered by two of them, both raising their swords above their head in preparation of a ground bounding strike. But as they smashed the group, Ornstein rolled towards them and under their blades, bringing his spear up in a slash as he rose, gutting one and tearing the chest cavity of another. No sooner had he rose when he fired a bolt of lightning that hit a demon towering over a downed silver knight. It hit the monster straight in the face, tearing its skull in two as it cleaved through bone and brain and sped on up to the cavern roof. Eventually, numbers began to tell, and the duels turned into two and then three-on-ones as the knights piled into the walkway.

With the demons defeated, the knights allowed themselves a moment of respite. The silver knights boots were burnt black by the unbearable heat and Ornstein was worried that their shoes might be melted right through. He turned to Artorias, about to say something but drowned out by a large boom. The walkway shuck for a second as lava was thrown up 50 feet, raining down hellfire that couldn't reach Gwyn's army at their elevated position. The earthquake sent more fragile buildings tumbling into the unimaginably hot lake.

They decided to press on, reaching an incredibly large set of stairs, reaching all the way to the heart of Izalith. Packing together as a phalanx, the silver knights marched forward, shields raised and spears out. A wave of demons proceeded to run back up towards them. The goat demons seemed comparatively small to the horde before them, a mixture of large, hairy horned beasts with great machetes and pot-bellied creatures of varying skin colours, tall with antlers and wielding oversized hammers. The two battalions crashed head on, demons falling to spears and knights being crushed under heavy blows. In addition to their already significant mass of foes, the statues around them came to life simultaneously, like figures from an unreal nightmare, blowing fire. Gigantic millipedes emerged from under the bridge of stairs, scurrying over the bannister and into the centre of the silver knights, unleashing spews of acid spit that melted away the knight's weapons and armour.

Chaos soon erupted, with Ornstein desperately trying to keep order in the ranks. Arrows and lightning were flying overhead and punching into the centre of the demons. Artorias had ripped the leg of a horned one as Ciaran clung on to another's skull, furiously stabbing her Tracers into its brain. Bodies fell upon bodies as the knights advanced, edging closer to what seemed like a doorway. Finally, the resistance seemed to thin from their foes, but at a heavy cost. As Ornstein ripped his spear out of the last of the millipedes, the front ranks burst through the gateway, massacring the few statue demons that happened to be on the other sides. Steam was rising from between cracks in the floor, making Ornstein worried that he might roast in his own armour, sweat pouring from between the chainmail gaps. Down more stairs they continued, getting further underground and closer to the spawn of these horrors. "Not far now!" Gwyn cried, receiving a gallant roar of approval in return. Despite over half of the soldiers in the two companies falling in battle, they roused their morale, surely there could not be many more enemies after the countless they have slaughtered already?

They came to another gate of wood with iron bars running horizontally along it. But no gate could withstand the fury of Gwyn, silver knights bashing at the base with their shoulder as lightning flew at the hinges and torches setting fire to the wood. Light sneaked through cracks split in the gate, giving Ornstein a much better view of the soldiers trying to force their way into the next section of Izalith. Their whole armour was jet black, not a scrap of silver to be seen anywhere. The wings on their helmets had begun to crack and corrode, making them look like demonic horns bursting through their helmets. Other parts of their armour were being scraped off, the guards around their loins had been eroded in such a way that it looked like a set of overlapping spikes, and the points of their fingers were also sharp. _How could flame alone do all this? _The gate still clung on, fruitlessly as the centre splintered and was ripped off its hinges, sending it spinning away.

Straight into lava. There was, at most, five square yards of earth, boiling from the heat around it. The rest of the cavern was just a river of fire, illuminating the cavern as well as burning it. There was no earthen causeway of stone bridge. The path just came to an end. There was no way the attackers could progress, the place was entirely empty apart from two huge demons that looked like someone had taken the legs of a dragon and given it horns and life, creating a creature that's limbs seemed to be the entirety of its had taken an interest in them, but so far made no move. After all they had suffered, victory had been snatched away from them at the last leg. Despite their faces being covered by their helmets, the black knight's shoulders hung low and were slumped in their posture showed clearly the expression of utter defeat. Ornstein dreaded the demoralising march back that would mark the first disaster for Gwyn's army.

* * *

The cathedral was as impressive as ever, golden pillars lined with exquisitely carved statues depicting a spear wielding knight. Yet it was the same sight he saw every day, had seen every day for, what, years? Decades? Time didn't seem to pass normally, with the sun always up it was daytime constantly, and Ornstein did the same motions over and over again. The men who brought him food never said a word, he trained in silence and spent most of his days not speaking. When he did talk, it was usually to himself.

Artorias had perished in saving Princess Dusk, Gough and Ciaran seemingly with him and without Artorias' friendly jeering that only strengthened the bond between them, Ciaran's priceless expressions that spoke a thousand words she never said, Gough's thundering laugh and thought provoking proverbs he felt truly and utterly alone. But only inside. For he wasn't alone, not really.

Smough the Executioner was his fellow guardsman, his brother in arms. And that made him doubly tired. Ornstein struggled to sleep with him around, and he certainly refused to turn his back to him. He was regarded as much as an enemy as an ally due to his feelings about the Four Knights. While it was clear he respected their deeds as evidenced by his desire to join them, he also had an unrestrained hatred for his denied entry into the elite group. While he certainly had the strength and stamina, he lacked grace, and most of all a clear mind. Ornstein found it difficult to discern whether he was intelligent or not, while his grasp on speech and language was that of a child and he couldn't formulate tactics or strategy, he had a capacity for violence, his inventive methods of torture and death which he usually took out on bugs, animals or his food. Ornstein was in no doubt that he was only practicing for the real thing. And his armour, he was fascinated with it, but the design he chose confounded the dragon slayer. Not only was it impractical, but it didn't even reflect his powerful body type, adding unnecessary space around the midriff, and the visor wasn't even where the face should be.

Yet, ever loyal, Ornstein carried out his orders. If Gwyn could sacrifice to save his people and their very way of life, then Ornstein could devote the remainder of his life to defending a false representation of the gods. Indeed, he hadn't been told as much explicitly, but Gwynevere's unexplainable increase in size and her lack of coherence only cemented her falseness. While the gods may have abandoned their once great city, but remnants were here. Someone must be orchestrating this sham, and he had a pretty good idea who. While the act would be blasphemy of the highest level according to the laws of the land, it also maintained the image of the gods, upholding said laws. While a paradox, it was a means to an end, an end that would either last eternity or come crashing down if Ornstein failed his duty.

All the time, Ornstein's very being felt empty and hollow, as if he were desperately missing something. Not something, everything, Ornstein missed everything, the true sun, being outside, his friends, an Age of Fire at the height of its splendour. He couldn't shake the feeling of being used, as if he was only a barrier to an enemy, only a pawn to the gods when he had been a much respected comrade and leader. Ornstein shut away such ideas, he was loyal to Lord Gwyn's cause and would do all he could to uphold it. Even if it meant outing up with the illiterate inebriate in the hallway. While Ornstein was sure he could defend the citadel singlehandedly, disposing of Smough would not only be against his code but would also drag him down to his level. If he were to fall in battle, Ornstein would be neither happy nor sad, simply continuing where he had failed. He doubted Smough could say the same.

No friends, no excitement, no life. All Ornstein had was time, something he had lusted after before had become his very enemy. When a foe did finally step upon this hallowed earth, Ornstein would be incredibly surprised if he wasn't delirious at that time. He may kneel to this apparition, but he kneeled to Gwyn's memory, not this illusion of the once charismatic princess.

He stepped towards the balcony edge, hand on the bannister, surveying the sight he had surveyed countless times before. No, when a foe came, no matter what his own mental state would be, he would be prepared, for at his very core he was the mighty dragonslayer that had brought down swathes of the scourges of men, a proud warrior and leader of hardened soldiers, ever loyal to one cause. If he knew nothing else, he knew he would stay true to this.


	3. The Silent Hornet

_War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend-J.R.R. Tolkien_

For every hour fighting, a guard spends a hundredfold watching. The same can be said for an assassin. She has a clear target, and would prefer to kill only that target. More deaths, mean more suspicion, more alert enemies and more blocked passages. Watching, remaining patient and muffling her footsteps would be far more time effective than leaving a trail of corpses in her wake.

But when an assassin is also a soldier, then such tight spots can be negotiated. Lord's Blade Ciaran was in such a spot. While the enemy had its back to her, as she preferred, it also had a thick hide and unassailable stone armour. And a devastating offense. One slip up and she would be breathing in flames that would melt her before they burned her, accompanied by keen claws and salient teeth that would shred her and leave her to bleed out in the mud. A very undignified death. Fortunately Ciaran was not prone to slip ups.

The other Lord's Blades also lay in hiding alongside her, mere shadows on the wall. When a Lord's Blade doesn't want to be noticed, she shall not be. Their uncanny ability to cover themselves where there was no obvious cover or glide past sentries that never even knew they were there are what earned them such a notorious reputation. That and their own devastating offense.

The eight towering dragons reared up in front of them, peacocking their impressive wings of rock, revealing a deadly smile of serrated teeth that would render the poor silver knight's armour useless. They might as well have been wearing paper. They would at least benefit from the added mobility. Yet the company seemed unfazed by this terrible sight, steeling themselves against the coming attack. They quickly organised themselves into ranks, shields up and swords and spears perched on top of their defence.

Their company leader, clad in classic silver knight armour but with a cloak of azure, raised his greatsword above his head, giving the signal to raise their hands and summon their lighting spears to their side. Ciaran had decided that this was the necessary signal. She had proved to Lord Gwyn that she deserved leadership of the 'Blades along with a Lord Soul shard. She would not let that trust in her be squandered. She raised her own weapon above her head and brought it down. Without a sound, the Lord's Blade fell upon their enemies.

Flashes of gold and silver ran through the air as the female assassins attempted to lay waste to the dragons, who were now caught between two tsunamis of fury. Whenever Ciaran's golden tracer sliced its way through flesh, uncontrollable bleeding would soon follow, the wound deep and wide, seemingly beyond repair. Her less noticed black dagger would make the dragon's hide suddenly turn black and sickly, smelling of puss and gangrene. The fight would have to continue for some time longer though for these effects to become significant. The dragons can shrug off these wounds with unnerving ease, and Gwyn's battle force was struggling.

Her Lord's Blades were taking some punishment; she turned to see one of her compatriots have her throat decimated, giving Ciaran a desperate look as if she were begging her to come and save her. This was followed by surprise as she realised she could no longer intake air to continue fighting. Before she even knew she had bled out, she had just become another corpse had slumped on the deck to join those already dead or dying. Ciaran had no time to dwell on such things. Distractions cause deaths.

Almost directly after this thought, a burst of flame raced towards her. She gracefully threw herself out the way as the flame engulfed several silver knights who had not been so quick. Despite this, her robes had caught the edge of the flame, singed and smoking at the edges. She ignored this and turned to face the offending creature, which had already advanced to her position, letting out a tremendous roar that seemed to shake the ground upon which she stood. Yet still Ciaran remained undeterred, preparing herself, hoping that the dragon would try to use his strength and weight in slow and lumbering attacks.

The situation changed drastically however when two other dragons appeared at the side of their brother in arms. She edged back until her back hit an arch tree, cursing herself for not thinking two steps ahead. Cornered, the other two dragons flanked her easily. Ciaran was determined not to fall without a struggle and took a defensive stance, determined not to show her fear. A flash of gold and blue, and suddenly the remaining silver knights appeared. A quick glance allowed her to see that the other five dragons lay smote in the dirt. Even throughout this, the central dragon stood unnerved, preparing a fireball that would no doubt fry her on the spot. As the flames escaped its mouth, the company leader threw himself at her, the flames just touching the soles of his boots.

He was quick to leap to his feet, the blue cape billowing behind him like a dear friend that refused to let go. He acted as fast as the lightning he threw, spinning on his axis and plunging the sword in the dragon's still open mouth, the heat lapping at the blade that had just cut the beast a wider cavity. The knight slid the blade threw its skull, forcing it forward with inhuman strength. Weapon left dragon causing it to slump onto the ground, convulsing and dead in seconds. The knight was gracious enough to offer Ciaran a helping hand back onto her feet. She didn't even realise she was still on the ground after seeing such a tremendous display of swordplay that matched her own. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" was all he could manage through him struggling for breath.

"Yes…yes, thanks to you sir" she replied.

"Good. Glad to be of service". And with that he was off, rallying his silver knights back to Lord Gwyn.

Ciaran was stunned by both his actions and his abruptness. She was expecting him to boast and ask for something in return, probably being flirtatious. Such actions would have earned him a sharp punch in teeth. Instead he had said the bare minimum, and Ciaran didn't know how to react to this. Spending all her life with soldiers had meant that courtesy was something she did not experience on a day to day basis. She was at least prepared for some sexist comment. Despite herself, she quickly regained her poise, looking around to check that her own company had not seen her so caught off guard. Assembling the remainder of her Lord's Blades, only now realising how fatigued she really was, she hauled herself back to Gwyn.

Back at the rally point, Gwyn was preparing for a final assault on the dragons, waiting for all his forces to arrive before a motivational speech to spur them onto a final victory. She scoured the tattered remains of Gwyn's army to confirm that all her own troops were with her. Despite their seemingly dire exterior, they seemed ready to fight and motivated for battle. They shouted cries of confidence, assuring Ciaran that they would follow her into the den of their foes. She turned to face where Lord Gwyn was about to give his war cry when she smacked right into something hard.

"Oh, so sorry. Please accept my apology." An oddly familiar voice said. She looked up and saw her saviour from before, blue cape tattered and singed.

"No, my fault." Ciaran managed to say, realising the short odds of meeting this man again so soon. "I wasn't looking where I was going." Only now did she appreciate his physique away from the heat of battle. He stood a good two feet taller than Ciaran, with shoulders that heaved as he drew breath. She imagined he needed all that muscle to swing his greatsword with the grace he did.

"If you say so, but I apologise none the less." He replied, and turned to move away.

"Sorry," Ciaran called after him, "But I didn't catch your name." It just seemed right to know the identity of the man who had risked himself for her.

"Sir Artorias, my lady. Proud knight to Lord Gwyn" This time he dropped to one knee and removed his helmet. His face was handsome, with both boyish and hardened qualities, accompanied by short black hair that curved slightly on his fringe. "And you, my lady?" He said as he got up, never once forgetting his manners.

"Lord's Blade Ciaran. And thank you once again for saving me." Artorias responded with a quick grin.

"Stay safe my lady. It would be an awful shame for you to die after all that trouble." And then he was gone, disappeared in the forest of silver.

* * *

The training room's high ceiling made sure to echo every movement she made, Tracers blazing as she cut through the air. Her sparring partner was struggling to keep up, but not failing. This was an exercise as much for Via1 as herself. A left and low slash to her knee followed by an upper cut with her right hand. She was gradually beating Via back. Ciaran then put in a lazy right stab which her partner parried. _Good. Raise her confidence_. Via was now holding her own, even coming back with her own barrage. But Ciaran feinted with a diagonal move catching her off guard. She then swept her feet from under her, knocking her flat on her back. As soon as Via hit the floor Ciaran was down with her, Gold Tracer at her throat. "Seems you win again Ciaran."

"Only just. Your footwork is improving." She offered her hand which the other assassin took and used it to stand up.

"It wou-" Before Via could finish her sentence, heavy footsteps pierced through the air. They both looked towards the amply large door as Knight Artorias stepped into the training room. Ciaran had been so caught up in her training that she must have stepped over her time. The training room was designed to be communal, and indeed was often used like this by the other knights. But Ciaran preferred to train in solitude or with just one other Lord's Blade. Training with others made her feel far too self-conscious. Assassins weren't meant to be seen after all. He gave an acknowledging nod. "Good morning Blades." He said rather jovially.

"Good morning Sir Artorias." Ciaran said in an even tone. Via didn't say anything and just smiled shyly. She gathered her stuff before hurrying out of the room, but trying to not make it seem like she was hurrying.

"Ornstein, get the bloody hell in here!" She heard Artorias call out behind her.

"Hold on, I'm missing my left boot!"

"It would be easier to find things with your head out of your arse." Ciaran heard Ornstein make a retort which was lost as she moved away. Now that she knew Artorias much better, he was much more uncouth in his speech to his friends, formality was saved for his superiors and strangers. It was odd how his speech could be so polarised. It didn't mean he was rude, far from it, despite his harsh language he never used it harshly, if anything it raised their spirits. The four of them were close, with Artorias and Ornstein constantly needling each other, while Gough laughed at the remains or caught in the middle. It was all good fun though, they respected each other's abilities and fought for each other in conflict.

Back in her quarters, Ciaran wondered what she could fill the rest of her day with, as there were no duties for her to do. She ended up staring blankly at the library's extensive collection of books for what seemed like hours. "Bored, Ciaran?" She found Artorias in the doorway, a lopsided grin on his face. "I was about to spend some time with Sif. You're free to join us." Ciaran was about to say no, but the thought of doing nothing gave her an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She needed to be occupied with something, so she agreed. They ended up in Anor Londo's gardens, Sif bounding off to chase some birds pecking at the ground, sending them scattering into the air. "We sometimes go to Oolacile." Artorias began, "But the trek is rather far, so we save it for special occasions. You could join us again sometime."

"Yeah, maybe." She mumbled. Ciaran felt slightly awkward, with Artorias fussing over Sif she could only watch and feel like a spare part. It was clear that Artorias cared greatly for Sif, fussing over minor smudges on his coat and specks of food in his teeth. Sif responded with a pounce onto his chest, slathering his face with licks. Ciaran edges a bit closer, drawn by Sif's boundless energy. He soon turned his attention on her, giving her the same treatment as Artorias. It was only now she realised how big he was, compared to Artorias he seemed like a normal dog. But Ciaran could now see he was as tall as her, and if Artorias was to be believed, still a puppy. "He seems to like you." Artorias noted.

Ciaran had to admit, she liked him too. Sif then lay down in her lap, which was actually quite painful as he was probably heavier than her. She patted him none the less. Artorias came over and picked him up, his hand brushing past Ciaran's as he grasped Sif under the belly. For some reason, she suddenly got chills that ran right the way up her spine. It made her relax and drop her guard, but also a bit uncomfortable. She didn't like not being in control. Even though she was in the company of a friend, she still kept herself guarded, a mental block that restricted her from showing weakness . She excused herself and made her way back to the keep. Maybe she needed to do some more training.

* * *

Over time, Ciaran found herself spending more time with Artorias, seemingly by accident. She even took him up on his offer of time at Oolacile. Of course, Sif came too. He spent most of his time splashing in various puddles, and chasing a rather large leopard that seemed to be stalking them. Ciaran wasn't worried, it seemed to be content to just watch them from a distance. She of course had been to Oolacile before, but never explored it. Also, never with company, particularly the large and smiling man next to her.

Despite her recent interactions with Artorias, Ciaran didn't feel comfortable around him. She found herself studying him too long, against her better judgement usually. She didn't feel in control. Artorias' shirt allowed her go see the top of his neck, revealing a rather brutal looking scar. It was still purple in places, running from the left side of his neck to below the neckline of his top. Without really thinking, she reached out and touched it. It made Artorias rigid, and she was worried she had hurt him. His body language didn't suggest discomfort, just puzzlement. He gave her a confused look. But still she continued, running her hand down it, softly, tenderly, in a way she didn't even know she could. She held her finger just above his chest. Neither said a word for a while. Ciaran broke the silence.

"Does it hurt?" She asked, lifting her eyes so they met his.

"No, not really. It's the least I deserve, bugger caught me off guard. Anyway, a warrior should be scarred. Shows that he is devoted to his cause."

"Or she. But it also means you're too headstrong." Ciaran noted.

"Then it is a wonder you are not covered in them. But we wouldn't want anything to spoil your beauty now, Ciaran." Artorias said, a broad smile developing on his face. Now it was Ciaran's turn to be surprised, this was the first time he had even mentioned her appearance, the joke however was very normal of him. Judging by his smirk, he meant it purely as a compliment and wasn't asking for anything else. They sat in silence for a little while more. She was about to open her mouth and say something when Artorias leapt up, giving Sif a treat. He almost took his whole hand with it. Artorias only found this amusing, and threw him a stick.

When they returned to sunlit Anor Londo, Ornstein approached them at the Great Hall's doorway. "Several Wyverns have been spotted on the wall's edge. There nest is believed to be in a rocky outcrop that's too close to the wall for some of the citizens. It seems we're going on a hunting trip" Ciaran was glad for the work. The four of them were finally up and moving again as compared to the horrible sense of inactivity that had hung over them recently. Ornstein raced off ahead trying to track the location of the Wyvern's nest, glad to be back dragon slaying. Gough was not far behind him, taking in the scenery around them. Ciaran thought there wasn't really much to take in, while the steep rock sides were impressive, it was just rock. There was little vegetation.

A screech suddenly was heard further ahead down the path that pierced through the air as harshly as one of Gough's arrows. She saw Ornstein in cover behind some of the rocks, while Gough hung back at a corner in the path, there weren't really any other hiding spots for one so big. She joined Artorias behind his own stack of rocks. He was about to break cover to get to Ornstein's position, leaning forward, preparing to sprint. Ciaran's hand then make a grab for his wrist, coiling around it gently, making the littlest effort to pull it back. Artorias turned to face her, giving a confused look she had seen before. Ciaran had surprised herself, the action seemed instinctive and as soon as she had done it, she regretted it.

"The beast is in the pathway." She urged trying to cover for herself. "Wait for Ornstein to come to us." Sure enough he did, edging backwards carefully and then making a short sprint to their side of cover. "Three wyverns, one drake. Us three will take the wyverns, while Gough keeps the drake occupied. Then we all move in together."

"Sounds like a plan" Artorias responded, keen as Ornstein to get this going. We stuck close to the rocks, slowly coming forward, closer to the reptiles. Their nest was simply a hole in a cliff face, a pile of charred bones of various creatures acting as stairs. It smelled awful, a mixture of rot and damp. Ornstein crouched down, then signalled with his hand to charge forward. As he did, his whole body seemed to zoom away, spear pointed forward. He caught the first wyvern in the jaw, ripping away some of his teeth. Ciaran and Artorias ran after him to support him.

A wyvern fired a bolt of lightning at Ornstein that seemed to do next to naught. Artorias capitalised on its outstretched neck and focus on Ornstein, leaping up and slicing the beast's head clean off. Ciaran had reached her target, deftly flicking her head out the way of a lunging bite. Rolling forward, she planted her Tracers into its comparatively soft belly, ripping upwards almost to its neck. It hit the ground heavily. All three readied themselves against the drake, whose had been pinned down by three arrows, one in its wing and two through its chest.

Its breathing was ragged and desperate. Another arrow sailed over and embedded itself in the drake, just below its slender neck. Ornstein delivered the killing blow, gutting it as blood and foul smelling hot air escaped from the new fissure. Ciaran allowed herself to relax, their job now done. "I believe a trip to the tavern is in order." Ornstein chirped, clearly glad to have put his dragon slaying tool to good use.

"I couldn't agree more." Artorias returned, clearly preparing for another drinking contest. Ciaran didn't really now the score line, but it seemed to her that both returned as bad as each other.

"I think it unfair to drink all the owner's stock." Gough added "But I shall join you none the less." It was evident that the large man could drink more than all three combined, but he steered clear of alcohol. He didn't really like the taste. They all laughed, walking back jovially. Artorias then spun round to Ciaran. "You've been awfully quiet. Would you join us?" Ciaran also kept away from alcohol, she preferred to stay in command of herself. But she also didn't want to be left out. "Yes Artorias, I believe I will."

She sat at the bar alongside Artorias. She hadn't even finished her first drink, while he had nearly downed his third, but seemed fairly coherent. Ornstein was having a knife throwing contest with a villager, his bright red hair making him stand out among the gathering crowd. Gough had to sit outside, as the tavern couldn't accompany his ample frame. Yet he was still happy, the laughing giant causing strangers to take detours away from him. "Do you think we could go back to Oolacile some time? It was very pleasant there." She finally asked Artorias, who had ordered another drink.

"Of course Ciaran. I'm sure Ornstein would love to come as well." This was not the answer she had hoped for.

"Couldn't it just be us two again, and Sif of course? I enjoyed that. I fear Ornstein would not enjoy the tranquillity that much." He took a moment to consider before he came up with an answer.

"If you prefer." He replied. Before anything more could be said, Ornstein came and slapped Artorias on the shoulder.

"Only ale my friend? Not up for a contest?" He gave Artorias a smile that screamed arrogance.

"Drinking with you isn't a contest Ornstein, you're on the deck after three seconds." Everyone else in the tavern saw this as a challenge, the noise and intensity upped considerably. Ciaran took this as her cue to exit, as Ornstein cried "Right, you pansy arsed dog. Prepare thyself!" She was beginning to feel rather tired anyway, despite it being early evening; the sun was beginning to set and cast shades of orange across the sky. She realised Gough was no longer by the doorway, and began to wonder where he could have gotten to.

"Ha ha, Pharis, that makes 4-3. Would next one wins appeal to thee? Now we shall finally see who is the better archer!" A booming voice echoed. She had no doubt Gough could be heard in Astora. It seemed she would be making her way home by herself. She would prefer to walk home as the air began to chill, deciding she had no need for a carriage. She had barely gotten a hundred yards down the road when a gravelly voice confronted her. "Not safe for a woman all alone at this time. Especially one so expensively dressed."

Four men had detached themselves from the edge of the shadows. She had noticed them of course, but simply assumed they were tired drunks who didn't know which way was up. She didn't respond, threats would make no difference to their intentions. In the light she could see they were wearing ragged clothing that had probably never seen a wash. In their hands were crude clubs.

Humans. They sent an inadvertent shiver up her spine. She had never hid her disgust for them. They faults were many: they had both the capacity for limitless good and evil. They had not the disparity that represented the Age of Fire, they were just so…neutral. But the worst thing was their greed. All humans seemed to have something ebbing away inside them, causing them to never be satisfied with what they have. The Four Kings were an excellent example. Rulers of a city in mighty Lordran, and yet they still hungered for power. They had destroyed countless lives, all because they were human.

While this moved Gough to pity, it moved her to scorn. She did not have her weapons with her, but she was confident she could make short work of them regardless. In the end, short was an understatement. They lay on the ground with broken bones and torn ligaments, unable to match the speed, grace and power of her dodges and strikes. The one that had spoken to her was being held up against the wall they had hidden by, Ciaran lifting him right off his feet and strangling him. As the life began to leave him, she realised it was neither her job nor correct to execute this man.

Whenever she killed, she always believed she had killed for a greater purpose, for a greater good that would eventually save people. There was no good in killing this man. She managed to make herself let go as he hit the floor unconscious. Ciaran continued on her way without a sound.

Artorias had decided that a trip to Oolacile was in order, to clear his head of yesterday's disastrous hangover. "Don't you regret your ridiculous contests now?" Ciaran asked him, perplexed as to why someone would engage in such heavy drinking. "It was all worth it though." Artorias replied, "I beat Ornstein. He denied any knowledge of remembering any such thing." He grinned with pride at the thought of beating his closest friend.

They followed Sif who had bounded through some undergrowth, revealing a small glade in the forest, with a small rock pool. Sif immediately threw himself at it, yapping and panting with glee. Artorias and Ciaran simply sat there and watched him for a while. Ciaran sensed that he felt a bit tense, which was odd as he looked so relaxed walking down here. He seemed content to just watch Sif in silence, which Ciaran promptly broke. "Don't you like spending time with me Artorias?" The question was very abrupt and caught him by surprise.

"Of course I like spending time with you." He said, giving her an incredulous look that said such a suggestion was ridiculous. "You're a very close friend and a great person. Moments with you are never wasted, just as being with all four of you makes me feel complete. Like we're a family." Ciaran felt a little more confident.

"And families can tell each other anything, can't they Artorias?" She began to feel like a small child asking a wise father irrelevant questions and it made her feel ridiculous. She had usually been so self- sufficient, and here she was hanging on this man's every word.

"Of course" Again sounding like such a thing was a given. She leaned her head closer into him, peering into his blue eyes, the same colour as his armour's cloak. She noted the small dent running vertically down his chin, another crevice of scar that marked his stubble. She was about to lean further into him, she had already placed a hand on his chest, and wanted him to place a hand on her, for him to lean in closer, show that he would return her feelings. "Are you feeling tired Ciaran?" He gave her another puzzled look. She simply ignored the question, still getting ever close to him. Instead, he broke the moment and stood up. Sif took this as a signal to return, and raced back, covering Ciaran and Artorias in water. She was still on the ground, utterly confused by what had just happened. Artorias broke her thoughts. "I should probably go back and train now."

"Train?" Was all Ciaran could manage, not believing that this series of events was happening. He had already exercised today, she was sure.

"Yes, you looked quite bored." Bored? Had Artorias lost his mind? "I've been having uneasy thoughts, feelings. Premonitions. I fear our enemies are closing in Ciaran, and I will not stand idly by while this happens." Why would he not be prepared? He seemed as alert as ever. Can he not realise that he is fighting for freedom and peace, and by chaining himself to duty is he restricting himself of the cause he is fighting for? She just sat on the ground, helpless. A realisation hit her, that despite her feelings and infatuations, Artorias was totally oblivious to them. She realised how little he rested, tavern drinking was all that occasionally broke up his routine of a crusade against evil. He didn't feel the same way about her, there was no room for her in his life. At that, she just wanted the world to swallow her up.

* * *

"Artorias?" Her voice echoed around the arena. It felt so empty, the only movement the dark clouds in the sky. The pale stone was moss ridden, with odd splashes of blue and black all over the place. This was not the Oolacile she remembered. A heavy clanking could be heard, as Artorias emerged from the doorway opposite the arena. "Artorias!" She squealed, so happy to see him alive. If only just. His azure cape was torn and frayed and his armour was missing pieces. His steps were heavy and laboured, as if he were carrying a great weight, and he seemed slightly taller as well, but she couldn't be sure of this. She also noticed his left arm hung limp at his side. "By the Lords, you look awful. Let m-" She said stepping towards him, but stopped as Artorias gave her a dead stare, as if only suddenly realising she was there.

The sight sent chills down her spine. He tilted his head to one side at her creating an awful crack that resounded around the stadium. There was brief moment of silence between the two. A deep moan that seemed to come from the very earth itself caused her to back away, and at this Artorias pounced. He was relentless, slashing and hacking at her with no sign of fatigue. Ciaran barely had time to lift her blades and move away from the onslaught. _Please Artorias, it's me_. He made an overhead slash, his greatsword landing inches away from her, embedding on the dirt. They were face to face now, and she could see blood mixed with inky blackness dripped from him and what sounded like a weak cough.

She couldn't believe that this could have happened, but didn't know what to think. It was just too appalling to think. _Please, Artorias. You're the Abyss-Walker, this can't happen, please…please…no_. She had tears streaming down her face behind her mask. Everyone felt like they were made of acid, tearing down her face. He suddenly leaped into the air, nearly as high as the wall of the coliseum. Surely that was impossible. Artorias could leap, but this was just impossible. He fell to the ground at incredible speed. She dodged, but somehow he tracked her while falling. The sword buried itself, making the smallest of cuts on her flailing boot. He simply lifted his greatsword out of the floor, as if it were cloth, not stone that he had just skewered. She raised her Tracers, but another powerful strike broke her guard, sending her arms down by her side. He followed with a pommel strike to the face, that she was sure had broken her nose. On her back, she knew she was gone.

To be killed by the man she loves…No, the man she loved. This was not Artorias. He raised the blade, and plunged it towards the ground. It hit the stone, going right through it, level with her knee, between her spread legs. The beast lifted its head, and Ciaran thought she heard gagging, and then crying. She managed to scramble away, Not-Artorias apparently unwilling to follow her out of the arena. That was the worst thing. Not that he was dead, not that he was a mere meat puppet, but that he was still in there, suffering, desperately trying to restrain the Abyss within him. He was what he had tried to kill, and that was the ultimate cruelty.

All these years later, and Ciaran still kneels by his modest headstone, growing larger with each passing decade. She has seen Oolacile turn into Darkroot Forest and heard the earthquake that created the Valley of Drakes. The only time she left was to obliterate that fool that dared take Artorias' ring. She prays for most of the day, praying and hallucinating. Remembering experiences, imagining possibilities. She was destined to stay here for eternity. She had considered joining Artorias, but that's not what he would have wanted.

She was unarmed anyway. All she carried where the clothes on her back and the soul in her hands. _My dear, dear Artorias_. Maybe some grave robber will finish her off. She is surprised to see she no longer cares. She returns to her praying, desperately trying to remember the sound of his voice. The way he walked, his crude jokes and odd way of speaking formally and informally simultaneously. She thinks of this, while she hears the howling in the distance. At least she is not alone in her mourning for her dear Artorias.

* * *

**Note: Via-Made up Lord's Blade**


	4. The Unbreakable Wolf

_Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you-Fredrich Nietzsche_

Men were screaming. Women were screaming. Children were crying. New Londo was in the grip of nightmare, a nightmare that had crawled from below the ground to wreak havoc upon all life. The scene was utter chaos as everyone scrambled over everyone else to escape a dire and painful death. Oddly, Knight Artorias felt rather calm, a reassuring beacon amidst the destruction. Beacon was not even an understatement. Towering over the human residents, his black plume elevated him further, silver and azure that walked forward slowly and surely towards the source of the panic. Artorias tried to radiate his relaxation to the fleeing citizens, hoping that they would think he represented a haven of safety and thus the citizens would calm down. There was no such result. However, he still marched forward, Sif in tow, sniffing the ground and making sour faces. Usually people are put off by the great wolf, but evidently the cause of panic was a great enough threat to make these people drop everything and run.

Artorias came to a great gate as the crowd thinned, the gate was just being sealed and barred, heavy chains being lifted and pulled taut across it. He noted several people in the distance crying out for them to leave it open. It seems the guards cared not for stragglers if the risk was judged this great. "Hold the gate." Artorias cried, deepening his voice and filling his voice with authority, not so loud but as effective. Several of the guards saluted but most carried on or simply glanced up. Artorias realised he needed to push his point further. "I AM SIR ARTORIAS," he bellowed, making some of guards flinch in surprise, "SERVANT OF GWYN AND MEMBER OF THE FOUR KNIGHTS. MY COMMANDS WILL BE HEARD, AND THOU SHALT OPEN THIS FUCKING GATE!" This time the guards obliged, but not without grumbling. "They're coming you bloody fool! If we open this gate, then we also abandon our posts. I'm not staying to die." This caused gasps and mutterings of shock from the other guardsmen. A soon as the speaker had closed his mouth he seemed to realise his error and saw his confidence drain away. "If you want to abandon your duty, then go, leave your friends. You may save your lives. But you will not save your honour." The guards seemed to be discussing their fate while Artorias moved towards three men in crimson robes, who seemed to be in charge of the situation. Their colours identified them as healers. "They will charge for this weak point and not stop until they are through. Their numbers are near inexhaustible." The tallest of the healer's stated.

"I must agree with Ingward." The one next to him said. "We must think of the people already here, will we throw their lives away? What will protect them?" All three of them nodded.

"I fear words are wasted on him Yulva. He is clearly set on a plan that will doom us all." The third one spat.

"I will take the fight to them alone then. I thought healers were meant to be approachable." Artorias wasn't going to let these men detract from the matter at hand.

"You haven't seen the horrors I have seen, _knight_." He sneered the words at Artorias. "The dragon war may have been brutal, but the soldiers knew what killed them. They weren't tortured to death in mere seconds." This man clearly had no knowledge of the dragon war, but Artorias wasn't here to swap war stories. It was obvious that his experience had affected the man.

"We will help you in any way Sir Artorias. Do what you deem best." Ingward butted in, earning a dark glance from the unnamed healer. Artorias outlined his plan quickly, emphasising the importance of keeping the citizens within the second wall. He then moved through the gate that had been left ajar. The guards had fled after all.

New Londo was actually quite grand, particularly impressive for a human city. It didn't have grand spires, turrets or minarets. It's style was square and strong, thick walls with square towers that had balconies and domes. Rather than the clear, outlined design of Anor Londo, these streets wound and slithered, a jumble of stairs and buildings that leaned over each other. It was packed tighter than the city of the gods, and less clean than it as well. But impressive none the less. As he neared the centre, the ground began to be enveloped in a thick black mist, only at ankle height.

It was then Artorias noticed a gaunt hooded figure, dressed all in black. Artorias called out to it, saying there was safety behind the second wall, and only just realised that Sif was nowhere to be found. The figure turned, unsheathing a sword. It's face was blank white, with hollow eyes that showed nothing but emptiness. The figure charged at the tall knight, a strong thrust that Artorias easily sidestepped, capitalising on his over extension. His greatsword pierced the figure at his side, going right through him and emerging on the other side. To his shock, it only turned its head towards him, pushing itself _further down _his greatsword. Grabbing the sword's hilt, it was only inches from Artorias now.

He could smell its putrid breath. Its hood flicked up to reveal a horror of a face; the crooked, yellowed teeth and cracked bone of a skull, flesh still grasping to its cheeks. The torso seemed to be its rib cage, fused with the fabric and scraps of armour that it once used to wear. Its left hand lit up with a bright white light as it pulled the fist back, preparing for a hook. Artorias, regaining his composure, simply twisted the blade already inside it which seemed to do the trick as it let out a deep moan and fell limp.

Artorias then felt a warm feeling on his leg and saw Sif panting and nuzzling him. He knelt down and stroked his head, while Sif dropped a black scrap at his feet. "Don't go running away again boy. What's this you got with you?" Picking it up, he saw it was similar to the rags that the skull knight had been wearing. Sif then tugged at his ankle with his mouth, trying to get Artorias to follow him. He led him through a narrow street that still had washed clothes on lines, up a spiral staircase that edged round a circular tower. It went on for several stories before climaxing at an upper level of the city. A sword was lying on the floor which Artorias realised was Sif's: he had dropped it so he could make it back to him quicker.

Almost as soon as Sif was equipped another skull knight rushed them from the shadows. As a double team, he was no match for them, Artorias cleaving his arms right off as Sif distracted him and sawed at his waist. He had mixed feelings about fighting so dishonourably, but when so many lives are at stake his priority should be purging the city.

Another hallway, a tight spiral staircase and three more dead enemies later, they came to where Sif was pointing. The tower stood well above the rest of New Londo, with only a narrow walkway and a similarly small doorway as its features. The black fog was much thicker here, it even began to leap up at his knees, almost sentient like, making occasional jumps like tentacles reaching out for Artorias. He took tentative steps towards the doorway, seeing torn hinges and shards of wood lying around it. He turned around and urged Sif to stay. Despite a whimper, he obeyed.

Inside the tower there were only leaky walls and a single staircase. He edged onwards, slowly but surely. The wall was slippery yet sticky, no friction until it came off and attached itself to your hand. Artorias remained wary, expecting a surprise attack, watching his surroundings. It nearly killed him. The stairs came to an abrupt end, leading only to a fall into nothingness. "Artoriassssssss…" A voice seemed to call from deep in the blackness. The fog was so thick now, it looked like water. In fact, it was raising like water as well. It had now wrapped itself around his legs, making a sudden jump for his thighs. It was the most pain he had ever felt. His very core was freezing cold, as if his bones had turned to ice, particularly around his legs. But he didn't turn numb or lose sensation, instead the pain seemed to heighten.

Then his skin. It was if he were standing in a vat of boiling oil, his skin felt as if he were melting. He tried to move away but his legs refused to cooperate. He was stuck in place, arms flailing as he moved about one hundredth of his normal speed, like walking on treacle. Sif sensed his peril and began barking down the stairs, but he didn't come down the stairs. The darkness was rising now, slowly, but still nearly by his waist. "Well Knight Artorias. Failed at the first hurdle have we?" The voice was followed by a black bulbous head and long thin emerging from the gloom. Its eyelids parted to reveal a pair of large red eyes, with beady slits for pupils. He knew this creature…no, this one seemed different, more…

"Greetings" The head announced.

"_Darkstalker_" Artorias hissed the words. This heinous creature was surely his enemy, trawling the Abyss for unwary victims.

"I see my reputation proceeds me. No doubt my good friend Frampt has told you of me." Darkstalker Kaathe began. Artorias refused to respond, which wasn't difficult with all the pain he was suffering. He was determined not to let his anguish and fear show. His bones grew colder and skin grew warmer. He was panting now, making sounds not too dissimilar to stepping into a bath that's far too hot, only much, much worse. It was all Artorias could do to keep conscious. "However much I am enjoying this conversation, we have very little time."

"T-t…time…?" Was all Artorias could manage.

"Why my boy, can you not tell? You are dying, and I fear your time may be up soon. I can however save you. All I need is your allegiance." His smile seemed to spread wider as his eyes lit up.

Artorias could only scoff. "You'd better let me die then, it-t-t…" His speech was lost amidst the chattering of his teeth and laboured breathing.

"Hmm," Kaathe contemplated. "I'm not sure your friends would agree. Your wolf pup is also in my grip. And am I to believe you would forsake New Londo to the Darkwraiths over pride?"

"D-darkwr…p-p-p-pride?" The dark had run over his stomach making him feel as if he was about to throw up.

"I am not asking for you to be my servant. Simply swear to me, and you may do as you please. The Abyssal energy will not do as much as scratch your skin." Artorias was desperate to resist, but Kaathe's demands also made no sense. Swear on what? Swear to what? What could the Darkstalker possibly be getting out of this deal? But the serpent was right, and time was running out. He could not fail the others, and this is a decision he would have to reprimand later. The Abyss had reached his neck, dark motes were dancing before his eyes as he began to black out. "I-I-I ssssw…"

"Very well." Kaathe's smile had spread wide enough to encompass his whole face. And then he was gone. The murk dissipated before Artorias' eyes as a gold ring materialised on his finger, and jewel with the very essence of the Abyss at its centre. Sif throttled down the stairs to meet him, checking over his whole being for any sign of abnormality. It was as if the whole ordeal never happened. Artorias peered down the seemingly endless chute from which Kaathe had emerged, and then at the ring on his finger. He murmured a quick prayer and readied his equipment. Knight Artorias leapt.

It was almost a day later that Artorias returned with a ragged Sif in tow. The second wall had seen no action, the gate still carelessly open. Yulva was the first to greet him. "Sir Artorias! It is good to see the Darkwraiths failed to take thee! Pray tell, what is the situation?"

"The Four Kings have retreated back into the chasm, the Abyss contained in a tower. I scoured the Abyssal floor slaughtering Darkwraiths in their very home. But it was not enough. Legions of them are pouring into the city as we speak. Some of them do not stay dead, we must prepare for an attack." Artorias was quick to note that they were in no such condition to withhold an assault, the eerily deserted streets showing no sign of capable fighters. Towards the edge of the city, he could hear refugees desperately trying to force their way out of the damned urban sprawl to relative safety.

Before a plan could be made, a vicious and blood curdling cry was heard far within the city centre, deep and guttural that barely sounded human. Everyone, including the struggling refugees stopped and stared towards its point of origin, completely silent. _Thud…Thud…Thud…ThudThudThud_. Leaping up to the battlements, the sight made him turn cold. Uncountable amounts black shapes working their way towards the gate. Artorias leapt back down, putting up his greatshield and pressing against the gate, Sif joining him, leaning with the thick wooden door. The healers prepared their catalysts. And suddenly the gate erupted.

Darkwraith after Darkwraith poured through the now open passage, the heavy gate ripped right from the wall. Artorias extended his arm and spun a whole three hundred and sixty degrees, decapitating an almost perfect circle of Darkwraiths. He let the next wave charge at his greatshield, adsorbing the impact and then pushing back with his own force. The now stunned creatures were easily destroyed. Another Darkwraith had emerged behind him, trying to bring his blade down in the armour gap by his neck. Fortunately, Sif charged in a removed the fiend's wrist, still clasping its sword. A woman's scream broke the din of battle as he swivelled to see a swarm of Darkwraiths slithering up the battlements and over the houses, making their way towards a stockpile of humanity. "Artorias we must-" Ingward began, now on the safety of higher ground.

But Artorias' sense of duty had already kicked in, and he was already moving. Knowing that the helpless humans would be decimated, he charged for the nearest building, Sif cutting a clear path for him. Artorias felt a blow to his left knee, but he carried on regardless. Straddling a fence, he clasped the house's roof and pulled himself up. He trailed the monsters along the rooftops, swiping down those he caught up with. Reaching the end of the tenements, a lone Darkwraith was terrorising the nearest humans, swiping its sword and flailing with its glowing hand. Using all his energy, Artorias pounced, reaching for the clouds. He came down upon the Darkwraith, sword pointing the earth, just as it turned to see its fate.

The sword almost vaporised the ex-knight, sending giblets and remains of shattered armour flying in all directions, covering the citizens in gore. Artorias was quick to recover, and decided to ascend a level to survey the massacre and see where he was needed most. Reaching a crumbling stone buttress, with Sif scrabbling alongside him, he surveyed the scene, careful not to slip on the loose edge. It was not encouraging. More screams and Artorias looked directly below him, more Darkwraiths throwing themselves at the survivors. Then the floodgates were loosened.

* * *

Anor Londo truly was a sight to behold in the sunlight. Dark spires rose high from gold enamelled towers, vast walkways and pillars dotted beside them. The whole city seemed to radiate luminescence, a representation of the awesome power of the gods. The Four Knights were supping in relative solitude, their duties meaning that they missed the communal meal. Artorias had decided on two fresh fish today, with lashing of vegetables and seeded bread, all served on a spotless silver plate. He took a moment to pause his feasting a survey the people sitting with him.

Ornstein was on his right, shocking red hair falling just above his shoulders. Artorias had great respect for the man, as Ornstein did for him. They had been brothers in arms from the start, a deadly duo that had never been defeated. Ornstein was proud however, and was more likely to follow up on slights and insults than the rest of them. He was also unswervingly loyal, taking Gwyn's word as law, no matter what the costs or effect on his own pride, and in battle, Ornstein had proved himself a capable commander earning him the captaincy of the Four Knights. Artorias actually found it unnerving how calm he was in chaos, head utterly clear and focussed allowing him to execute attacks and lead manoeuvres with precision and incredible speed. His spear work was unmatched, able to employ the use of thrusts and slashes, always managing to find gaps in the enemy's defences. Not that it was required, his spear was so keen that it could go straight through most armours.

Gough sat at the left edge of the table, sitting cross legged on the floor, the charred carcass of a whole cow in his lap. Gough was always the most cheerful of their group, and one of the most intelligent. He seemed to defy the trend that followed most giants, often offering proverbial and philosophical analogies of almost anything. He would occasionally try his hand at crafts as well, becoming good friends with the blacksmith and would chat away about crafting all day if time permitted it. While the other three simply carried out their tasks, Gough would always contemplate them, considering every view point and the implications of their actions of everyone. Ultimately, it was his archery he was famous for, being able to hit the centre of a target from when others seemingly couldn't even see it. His friendship with Pharis was also well known, Gough calling him a paragon of humankind. It was ironic that despite his appearance, Gough was the friendliest and most approachable of them all, always with things to say.

Finally, Ciaran sat opposite him, cutting her food delicately with precise cuts that created morsels of perfect shape. She was probably the least notorious of the Four Knights, a state of affairs that Artorias imagined she wished to keep. She spoke only what needed to be said, but had an acid tongue when provoked that have had people cowering from her words alone. Her movements seemed to go entirely unnoticed, making no sound and leaving no tracks. These abilities, coupled with incredible agility and blinding attack speed made her a force to be reckoned with even when she could be seen. Her position as a female warrior seemed to cause no qualms for her, she never felt the need to prove herself or take part in lavish tournaments of skill. If anything, it meant her enemies often underestimated her, much to their despair.

Artorias popped the last scrap of potato into his mouth and stood up from the table. A young boy was at his side almost immediately, taking his silverware and carrying it to the kitchen. Moving through the doorway, past to guarding silver knights and into a high ceiling corridor. He was admiring the paintings on the wall, considering what training regime to undertake next. He had seen unspeakable horrors in the devastation of New Londo and the effect that these horrors can have on innocent people. Artorias would not stand down as this world was ripped away from him and was always ready to hunt down Darkwraith stragglers. Lordran would need the Four Knights if they were to stand any hope against the coming darkness.

While he did occasionally celebrate and engage in revelry, he saw it as a weakness in himself, a minor break from the dawning realisation that he may be the only one who could destroy this threat once and for all, and nothing would sway him from his purpose. "Did you enjoy your meal?" The voice made him jump and stub his toe on a nearby pillar, causing a cry of pain and an 'Ah fuck it' from Artorias, making Ciaran giggle. "Yes, yes, it was very tasty." Artorias said, finally putting weight on his toe. He found Ciaran to be acting rather oddly recently, acting as his shadow for most of the time. He also felt empty around her, like there were butterflies in his stomach, and he couldn't understand what it was. Certainly she never used to engage in small talk and he was worried she had been through some sort of trauma that had changed her, despite seeming as healthy as ever. Maybe she just found him more approachable than Ornstein, with all her silence she surely had to let out sometime. But this also didn't quite add up to him, Gough was surely a much better candidate than him. "What was it that you wanted Ciaran?" He asked her.

"Who implied that I wanted something?" She answered. They walked on for a few seconds before she finally said "Actually, I was wondering if you wanted any company on your next outing, wherever that may be." Artorias considered this for a moment.

"There wouldn't be any need." He concluded "I have Sif, and there is no need to risk yourself." It didn't seem like the answer she wanted. "But I was planning to visit Oolacile. You can take me up on my previous offer." This earned him a satisfied smile from Ciaran, and Artorias was glad that she was glad. Oolacile was a sanctuary for him. It allowed the purification of his thoughts, a place to ponder and plan against the darkness. It was also a productive outing for Sif who always seemed keen to explore new places. He had also befriended Alvina the talking cat who had first shown him the forest and its surrounding areas. She had met him with open curiosity and was cooperative as long as he didn't spoil the forest beauty. Sif broke his train of thought, bouncing up to him covered in mud, which he slathered on Artorias, earning yet another giggle from Ciaran. "Come on boy, let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

Slice to his left. Block. Thrust at stomach. Sidestep. Move forward, return with an attack of your own. Artorias nearly caught Ornstein but he had nimbly arched his back and glided right under his greatsword. He then planted his spear in the floor, using it to propel himself at Artorias and launch a flying kick. Artorias raised his shield, then threw himself at Ornstein shield first. The bash caught him square in the jaw, just as Ornstein's spear smacked into Artorias' temple. They both collapsed on the floor of the training room, breathless, but laughing all the same. "Thou fought well, brother." Ornstein said while he got up and dusted himself off.

"Thou fought like a drunken ass slipping in its own shit." Artorias returned, causing them both to chuckle. They seemed to have a complete understanding of each other. They were about to start another duel when harsh words caused them to prick their ears. They both turned to see Executioner Smough getting increasingly aggressive with a hapless servant. "I-I-I'm really sorr-" Was all they heard him manage, before being sent flying by Smough's push. Ornstein began to call out, but Artorias was just stuck in place. Artorias. Something nagged at him in the back of his head, like there was something he knew he was forgetting but couldn't quite get exactly what it was. _Monster. Fiend. _

It began to actually hurt now, a spontaneous headache. _We all know what you do with the bones. No one can prove it, but we _all _know. How can he be allowed to roam free? How does Gwyn allow this? Will you stand idly by while he dishes such injustice? Artorias? ARTORIAS?! _Without a word, only an inhuman cry, Artorias launched himself at the giant of a man. He used all his speed and weight to slam into his muscular midriff, staggering him. A vicious roundhouse kick to the back of the knee brought the executioner down. With frightening speed that Smough couldn't counter, he leapt onto his chest and struck a fist at his nose. _Your sword. Artorias, finish him, get your sword. _Artorias sprinted back for his weapon and straight into a golden pole.

Dazed, Artorias found Ornstein standing over him, trying to rouse him. Artorias sat up, too quickly and it made him feel queasy. "Artorias? What happened? You were about to kill him!" Ornstein had grabbed his shoulders and was shaking him, trying to get an answer. Artorias got up, with Ornstein's aid, and found himself alone with him in the training room, Smough's small puddles of blood still on the floor. _What happened to me? _"I'm sorry Ornstein." Was all he could manage, "I don't think I'm very well." He pushed past Ornstein, who offered little resistance, and tried to make his way to the infirmary, using the corridor wall as support. He felt find now though, clear headed and focussed, as if the whole thing had never happened.

He decided to just carry on, and if he felt ill again, he would ask for a healer. Just as he was going to leave, Ciaran came marching rather stiffly down the corridor. "Hello Ciaran." He said, in hope that a normal conversation would give him a respite from madness and make him feel better. Ciaran had always been such a calming influence for him, even if he did feel slightly awkward near her. She didn't respond or even acknowledge him, pushing past and continuing down the corridor. Now Artorias was horribly confused, making him feel worse. Pondering the days strange events, he realised he had walked onto the great balcony. Gough was sitting in the sun, carving a piece of soft wood. Hoping something else strange wouldn't occur, he sat down beside him. "Aah, Artorias, I trust thee art well." Gough said in that deep booming voice of his.

"No, not really Gough."

"Well that is a shame, would you care to share thine ailment?" He sent a flake of chipped wood floating over the balcony edge.

"Actually, it would help me if you could tell me what's up with Ciaran?" Gough gave him a wry smile and a sad sigh.

"The poor girl. Your actions have quite affected her." And Artorias was confused once again. What a day this was turning into.

"Me?" He asked disbelievingly, racking his brain for what he could have done.

"Why, Artorias! I never thought thee so blind. The girl was quite love-struck with thou, and you spurned her away!". Love-struck? Gough had surely lost his wits. The statement was so baseless, so flawed and unfathomable that…surely not. It dawned on Artorias, and the realisation hit him like a bull. The way she stared at him, followed him, the fact that she started touching him when there seemed no reason to. _Last time in Oolacile_. How could he be so blind, so ignorant to her advances? Especially when it occurred to him that he felt the same way, the feeling he got in his stomach, the emptiness and occasional knots when she was around him.

His devotion to the protection of Lordran had supressed his own emotions and made him blind to others, even when stone drunk. How could he have shut off such a large part of him. He looked up and saw a rather bemused Gough, who could see his thoughts written all over his face. "Thank you Gough." Was all Artorias could manage before he bolted towards the living areas. Ciaran was alone in her room, staring down at her desk with her back to the door. "Ciaran?" He asked, tentatively. He saw her straighten up before saying "Yes, sorry Artorias. What was it that you wanted?" Her voice was terse and sharp.

It only made Artorias more angry with himself for hurting her like this. He had to say what he wanted quickly, for fear of making a fool of himself, but also before Ciaran's sadness turned to anger with herself, and then projected that anger at others. He walked up to her chair, causing her to get agitated, and in turn stand up. She was looking at him with a rather annoyed look on her face that screamed 'the sooner you piss off the better' at him. She began to speak with a tired sound to her voice. "Artorias plea-". He took both her hands in his own, cutting her off. She stared up at him, shocked, with eyes as golden as Ornstein's armour. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, startling her even further. She was about to say something before he wrapped her arms around her, putting his head right next to hers. "I'm so, so sorry." He whispered as he felt her breathe on his neck. She didn't respond, at least not with words as it seemed no verbal reply was needed. While he was holding her, he just felt so complete.

* * *

_They're here Artorias. And you killed them. _Thousands of bloated corpses surrounded him, their skin hanging on in shreds that were slick and oily. They were mostly decomposed, and Artorias would not have been worried if they weren't moving towards him. They shambled towards him, falling over their own detaching organs. Water poured from every orifice they had, as if they were just balloons, sacks of water held together with a fragile membrane. _They were drowned, by you Artorias. They will never rest. You failed them. _The voice was obviously not his own, but still it resounded in his head as if it had always been there. And its words were not encouraging. They were upon him now, clawing weakly at him, their faces three black holes that seemed to show the very Abyss itself. One swipe of his sword and they all fell, all ten thousand of them flopped to the floor, the entire environment black apart from them, when just a moment ago there had been tall trees and luscious vegetation, all swallowed. But then they all rose again, limbs swinging as they struggled to their feet. And suddenly, he could see their hearts, black with white trim, pulsating out of them, reaching to him, calling to him. _You need their humanity Artorias. Artoriasss. Artoriaaasssssssss. _

He awoke with a start, eyelids flying open as if his eyes were trying to burst from his skull. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, eyeing his greatsword that rested in its rack. The blade was a pure, jet black that seemed to both absorb and reflect light at the same time. Artorias felt slightly uneasy around it, but when in battle, the bond between sword and master had been as strong as ever. Only when he let the hilt go did he feel nervous, as if the weapon radiated some sort of energy.

A hand placed itself on his shoulder, softly, but with a slight force that was asking him to turn around. He obliged, seeing Ciaran with a concerned look on her face. They had only been together a few weeks, but he spent almost all his time with her and they already loved each other, it just took time for Artorias to realise it. There was no room for awkwardness or holding back between them, with their occupation they could be dead only the next day, so they wanted to cherish every minute. She sat up on her side slightly, her ivory hair draping over her perfect body, covering skin that lacked even a blemish. "Sorry I woke you." He said, his voice hoarse and croaky.

"I was already awake." She replied tenderly, placing a hand on his cheek. While this may well be true, he still felt bad as Ciaran was a light sleeper, alert as soon as she woke, letting nothing past her. He was thinking about getting up, perhaps getting some water or even beginning his day early. He doubted he would get any more sleep. But a pull from Ciaran brought him back into the pillow, and back into her arms. "I thought I was meant to be a calming influence on you." She uttered and buried her face in his chest and nuzzled up to his neck.

"You are. If you weren't here I wouldn't be sleeping at all." He slid a hand down her smooth back and kissed the top of her head. He was uneasy, the place in his dream he knew well, but why had he seen it now. To think, recently all his dreams had felt odd, as if he were watching someone else's dreams but still playing an active part on them. There was a thought gnawing at him inside, as if he had forgotten something really important, something that would decide a great many things. Ciaran raised her head and looked him straight in the eye. "It seems that you are determined to stay awake until morning." She began. _Not by choice_, he was about to say when he looked down and saw a mischievous grin spreading across her face. By now she had looped her arms under his and locked herself around him so that he couldn't have prised her off if he tried. He gave a short chuckle and returned the smile. If this were to be his final hours, he was determined to spend them well.

* * *

_You're so far from home, Artorias. By now, surely you know it can end only one way. _The cliff's edge was near, only a few inches separated him from the same bottomless obscurity that he saw in New Londo, that felt like decades ago. Or perhaps it was decades ago. Artorias could barely remember, his mind addled by his mere being here. 'The Abyssal energy will not do as much as scratch your skin'. It was only now that Artorias realised his skin wasn't what would be his downfall. His silver pendant had shielded him from the dark magic that would have been so lethal to him, but only his body. More of the dark spirits were floating ominously towards him, they only needed to touch him and it would feel like his very soul is burning.

They were forcing him back as he could only strike them with the tip of his blade, so he could avoid their touch. _You cannot defeat them as a man, Artorias. Unleash the beast, shed the shackles of flesh and bone. _And the voices, the fucking voices that wouldn't relent, stop, pause, break, cease, finish, end. Freeze. Inside he was cold, so, so cold and it numbed his very being, every fibre in his body screamed at him to die. Caught in his own madness, Artorias failed to notice the creeping sprite that was now a hair's width from him.

Sif, seeing his master's peril, threw himself at the darkness, swiping with an untameable fury. He passed right through it, destroying it but injuring himself. The most pitiful whelp was released, snapping Artorias back into reality. His friend and companion was lying on the floor, unmoving apart from several weak kicks, dark mist boiling of his coat. With a scream of defiance, he slid to the wolf, and planted his greatshield into the ground. Three huge sprites hit the shield with tremendous force, splintering the shield, and shattering Artorias' already bleeding arm. Artorias was thrown back as a brilliant light shot up and blanketed Sif, who was still breathing and now impervious to the advancing sprites.

He grabbed the beast's paw, and pressed the pendant into it, hoping that it might save his friend's life if he wasn't able to come back for him. Despite the unbearable pain that threatened to knock him out, Artorias soldiered onwards, safe in the knowledge that his friend would survive. _You have saved the pup, but doomed the world. Without your shield, you have no hope. Unless you transcend material bonds. _Artorias managed to find himself, somewhere in his own head, and unleashed his frustration and rage upon the Abyss. "I AM A KNIGHT OF GWYN." Gwyn who had departed to the Kiln of the First Flame. "A SOLDIER OF LORDRAN." A land under siege, falling apart inward and outward. "AND I AM PURE OF HEART AND TRUE TO MY PURPOSE." The voice then took on a far more sinister tone. _Oh, dear Artorias. There is only one direction to go. We can hardly make thou more light. _And now Artorias saw that his lack of darkness is what would allow him to be destroyed by the darkness. _Thou art mine own puppet now_. No, no, he was still Knight Artorias the Abyss-Walker, and he scraped through his mind for any sign of him still being there. It hurt, it hurt to think but he forced himself as he also forced his legs to carry him.

i remember me and ornstein fighting together against the dragons and the sense of camaraderie we had, how I felt proud and how we honoured each other. i remember when anor londo was raised. i remember laughing with gough and marvelling at the figurines he carved. I remember havel showing me the miracles of the faith and how to stay strong under pressure. i remember being crowned of my title before lord gwyn and all the court. i remember asking ciaran to join me in the lake and she said knight artorias are you looking for an excuse to get me into my undergarments? and we both laughed and she said i need no excuse and wrapped herself around me. i remember…i remember…remember…i…

A diagonal slice, and the sprite died. _Thou needst me Artorias. _A reaching stab and another sprite was dissipated. _Scream for me Artorias, scream as I ravage your mind and then thou shalt know that thou hast truly lost. _A leap of faith into the Abyss. A million red eyes staring back. A blinding pain in the left arm. In truth, the fight was far shorter than was deserving for a knight as noble as Artorias.

He was both laughing and crying as Manus unleashed a brutal ferocity at him. From looking at the creature, he saw nothing but a pure monster. Surely this could not be the sentient villain that had tortured and taunted him all this time? The voices, that so usually read his thoughts, remained silent. Artorias landed a few decisive hits, but nothing to truly damage the Father of the Abyss. Artorias could not take much punishment, without a shield, a broken left arm and a cracked mental state, it was a wonder he could fight at all.

He convinced himself it was the fight he was born for. If so, Artorias was not born for much. A final slam from Manus, and Artorias was kneeling before him, a jarring pain in his spine as well. In his final moments, he saw his friends around him. Ornstein was giving a sad smile and saluting. Gough held a look of despair. Gwyn was there, but ablaze, and his skin was melting. Gwyn's children with blank, unreadable faces. Havel seemed to be staring right through him. His silver knights, on one knee. And finally Ciaran, tears streaming down her face, making her beautiful golden eyes red. He only wished he had spent more time with her, but he had realised his feelings too late.

What was more cruel, to not acknowledge her or to give her hope only to be lost such a short time later? He was face to face with Manus now, utterly helpless and unable to avoid his fate. "Forgive me friends…for I have availed you nothing." Then, the final voice spoke, a voice that seemed to sneer, a voice he pictured had goofy teeth, red eyes and black skin. A voice he knew all too well.

"Nothing? No Knight Artorias, thine purpose is just beginning…"

And then all was black.

* * *

**Note: Well there are the first few chapters of this story. I hope people like it as I plan to update it pretty quickly, I've just got ideas bursting out of my ears for other characters. The focus will be on Hawkeye Gough next time, so sit back and watch how Gough hunts dragons.**


	5. The Giant Hawk

_He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how-Fredrich Nietzsche _

The ceremony had two purposes. The first was the honour the knights in their heroic efforts against a seemingly unbeatable force and their part in the establishment of Lordran. The other was to make a grand statement. A statement that said we were here to stay, that those who oppose us shall face the wrath of the Four Knights and that they shall never be toppled. Anor Londo's great hall was prepared for them, a stand for Gwyn's throne and a red and gold carpet slicing the room in two as it forced it way through the centre of the hall, flanked by silver knights and behind them, nobles and retainers who had come to see the Four Knights ordained as such. The room was spilling with people. And to go with the grand decorations, they had their own grand attire. Every knight had been commissioned their own armour, to make them unique among the other soldiers, to stand out as true leaders of Gwyn's army.

None of them had their helmets, they were resting on pillows with the same pallet as the carpet, unique rings resting alongside them. Artorias and Orenstein had done away with their silver plate and chosen grand and hardy chestplates and vambraces that made them a truly striking presence. Ornstein was all in gold, steel layered over steel to create a protective and flexible defence. But where most armour is tempered in fire, his was forged in lightning, utilising its raw energy that made it volatile but also tough. The red plume that had once decorated his silver helmet now stood atop the gold one, even more proud and magnificent than the last.

Artorias was in silver, but ornate and custom fitted, his original azure cape still around his neck. His helm had the mark of the wolf on it, as well as more azure cloth. He too had a plume, but black and not as extravagant as Ornstein's.

Ciaran was dressed as every other Lord's Blade, a cyclops head piece and blue robes, a darker blue than Artorias'. She had asked for nothing but a porcelain mask, so that cool indifference would be the last thing her enemies saw.

Gough had wanted armour that was modest and rough, representing his humble nature. Heavy banded mail with a dragon bone support on his bow drawing arm and scrappy fabric that lined its underside. His own helmet was mostly a great helm that swept down to his neck with multiple slits for vision.

The knights were aligned in a line, Ciaran and Artorias on the outside, Gough and Ornstein centre. No one was saying much, it was odd to see them so in their element in combat but so nervous when all they had to do was stand before a crowd and say some words. With a curt nod from the porter, they marched as one, carful to make precise steps as they knew everyone's eyes were on them. A fanfare of trumpets played and people began their cheers, applauding and hooting with exaltation. An equal mix of shouts and murmurs carried around the hall.

"Look at how handsome he is…"

"No way, Ornstein has the reach advantage…!"

"I never knew Gough was a _giant_, I thought they just meant he was large…"

Whatever people's opinions were, they were all glad for the deeds they had done, this grand kingdom would not exist without them. As they stepped to Gwyn's throne, everyone fell silent, both as a courtesy and so they could hear their lord's words. They knights went to one knee before Gwyn, as he rose and clasped his hands around his greatsword. "Siress Ciaran." He boomed, his voice bouncing off pillars and archways. "I dub thee the Wasp Knight, and commander of the Lord's Blades. I present to you this mask, and this ring, so that you may destroy your enemies at their most vulnerable."

They had rehearsed what would come next. "Lord Gwyn, I vow to defend thou and this kingdom, until thou releaseth me or death claim me." The quietness of the room made sure that her soft voice was still heard. She stayed kneeling, as Gwyn moved next to the other end of the group. "Sir Artorias. I dub thee the Wolf Knight, and commander of the 2nd Company of Knights. I present to you this helm, and this ring, so that you may fight on through the heaviest of blows." Artorias took both items in each hand, placing the ring on his finger and leaning the helmet on his knee.

"Lord Gwyn, I vow to defend thou and your kingdom, until thou releaseth me or death take me." He stayed facing the floor, not willing to break the formality of the ceremony. Gwyn then went to Gough, who was straining to stay as low as he could. Yet Gwyn still had to stretch for the sword to reach his broad shoulders. "Sir Gough. I dub thee the Hawk Knight, and commander of the Dragonslayer Archers. I present to you this helm, and this ring, so that your bow shall remain true, and your arrow will always find its target." His huge helm was handed to him, and Gough accepted it with both hands.

It was beautiful. Also, so finely polished that he could see his own reflection in the metal. It was the spitting image of what he had in his head, and to think a fellow giant could have made something so grand filled his heart with joy. After all the hardships and prejudices he had suffered through, fiery breath and fiery tongues. And here there was this great lord whom he had followed into battle, smiling at him and showering him with gifts and praises.

Only now did the moment get to him, that all these people were finally judging him on his abilities rather than his race. He nearly botched the response, and he realised he had delayed and everyone was waiting for his own speech. "Lord Gwyn…I vow to defend thou and your kingdom, until thou releaseth me or death take me." He took a deep breath as Gwyn was ready to move on. "And…" He began. The crowd was now staring at him, making him hesitate for what seemed like an age. What could warrant such a break from formality? "I vow to cherish these gifts thou hast presented me with. I swear that I shall never remove this helmet for as long as I am in your service."

It seemed he had stunned several of the guests, and some may have broken into a round of applause if Gwyn had not quickly spoken up. But not before he shot Gough an approving smile. "Sir Ornstein. I dub thee the Leo Knight and commander of the 1st Company of Knights, as well as captain of my Four Knights. I present to you this helm, and this ring, so that your spear shall smite your foes in battle." Ornstein's helm truly was a sight to behold, a fierce representation of a roaring mountain lion, teeth and all. The plume shot up twice as high as the helmet itself, a soft but firm set of red strands. Ornstein accepted it graciously, and then said the words required. Then, at Gwyn's final lines, they stood as one, donned their helmets and turned to face the audience. "Rise, my Four Knights. Live with honour, and may all your actions be true and delivered valiantly."

Now was the cue for the assembly to cheer. And cheer they did. It was even more deafening than the holler when they entered. The silver knights stood to attention as one, stamping a foot and lowering their spears to create a tunnel as they turned to face the Four. For once, after all the bloodshed, there was a moment of respite. And Gough truly felt a part of something.

* * *

Flecks of wood fell to the floor, which Gough scraped to his left. He would pick them up later. He looked across at his friend, lightly tapping at a comparatively tiny anvil with that hammer of his. It was a wonder how those massive fingers and huge muscles allowed him to work so delicately, not only making fine metalwork but also engraving and ornate shaping. His manipulation of lightning also made even more powerful weapons; he had used this gift on Ornstein's armour.

The other giant looked back at Gough, and saw him struggling with one of his carvings. "Give me." He grunted and reached out his hands. Gough knew better than to question his expertise on these matters, and obliged. He grabbed a knife that looked hilariously small in his grip, but still moved like you would move a paint brush. He saw that the pattern of the wood had been roughly done, and turned it over to a clean side before swiping across the grain. "Cut outline. Then dig round. Not in. Then smooth." His deep voice resounded all around Gough as he dragged the knife across the wood.

Indeed, the pattern was much more clearly defined, the wood felt polished rather than Gough's rough effort. "Much obliged friend." Gough said as he took the carving back and tried to replicate the blacksmiths impressive handiwork, who gave a short chuckle and then announced "Try lots. Then you good." Gough truly felt at home in his presence, another intelligent giant to share work and swap stories with. He never said all that much, or in an elegant manner, but he was far from stupid.

He knew much, probably the most of anyone, about his speciality, and a great many other things, it was merely his method of expressing this to others that caused strangers to disregard him as a brutish giant. But the people of Anor Londo knew better, if the rest of Lordran didn't. He had helped forge this nation as he had forged the armaments for Gwyn's armies, always carrying out repairs or working on new projects. He loved for his work, and spent almost all his hours at the forge.

Deciding that he needed a walk after all that sitting down, Gough stood up and surveyed the view behind him. While the blacksmith was in his forge, a colossal archway led to a balcony which gave views over all of Anor Londo, and connected to the main walkway. He had decided to go his regular route, all the way around the main keep, and then back to his quarters lower down the city. On these walks, he often picked up snippets of conversation without meaning to. Gough seemed born with incredibly astute hearing, so he often eavesdropped without meaning to, just catching conversations taking place a story above him or even on the other side of a door. He would also remember the days when he was in his prime, hitting dragons with incredible accuracy when they were barely specks in the sky. The joint under their wings was quite vulnerable, hitting it would cause serious pain and temporarily paralyse their flying ability. A tactic that he used often in the war before the time of Lordran.

The final march upon the dragon's sacred mound had been a ferocious battle. The dragons were trapped upon the hill, being swarmed from all sides by the knights. Gough's archers had ensure that the dragons remained on the ground or they would turn the fight on its head, flying in behind them and breaking their formation. Ornstein was putting down every dragon that came at him, he was truly a beacon of hope for all the soldiers as he refused to fall. Gough had put down many dragons that day, many men had also fallen but they had triumphed at the last. It was a dark moment when Kalameet came forward however. His wings blotted out the sun, casting a thick, black shadow over everyone. Then he swooped, cutting a clear line of dead through Gwyn's knights with his claws draping across the floor as he flew.

Soldiers were grabbed in his jaws and thrown around, armour was slashed right through and his eye seemed to incinerate soldiers where they stood. He plucked one of his archer's head clean off and maimed another. He had trapped the poor man under his paw as he dug another talon under his gaping severed limb. The fighter had screamed, a horrible scream that wreaked of desperation and pain. The black dragon had made sure he was conscious during the whole ordeal. And Kalameet had laughed, _laughed _as it even prised the gaping femur from the knight's body.

That was when Ornstein stepped in and braced his spear against the beast. Ornstein had put many wounds upon the monster, but it still fought on, seemingly oblivious to the damage. It pinned the renowned dragon slayer under its arm, prepared to give him torturous treatment for inconveniencing it. Looking back, Kalameet was probably furious that it had met a worthy adversary that it could not strike down with one swipe. Gough's finest moment perhaps came then, loosening an arrow that struck forth with all his fury. It struck Kalameet straight in his eye, burrowing into it and just edged the skull around its eye hole. It reared up and gave an strangled roar that punched through the din of battle. Blinded, it left the battle, flying high but still taking another arrow in its back leg calf. Yet there was a pile of corpses all around where Kalameet had stood, a significant portion of their force had been decimated. To Gough it had felt like a hollow victory. Kalameet had been sighted much later, but it had kept beyond Lordran's border, and seemed content to stay there. No point rattling the hornet's nest.

_Alas, enough of reminiscing. The present is for living in._ His stroll had nearly reached its end point, the cathedral high above him now as he continued down Anor Londo's lesser known backstreets, which he struggled to fit in. And that was when the runner called after him. "Sir Gough!" He cried, hoping that the giant could hear him. Surely enough, Gough did and turned towards the red faced lad. "Sir Gough, your presence is requested in the cathedral. Lord Gwyn said it was most urgent."

"I thank thee." Gough replied. "I shall be there shortly." Gough took the main road this time to get straight to the keep, after all, most people try to avoid a stampeding giant so the crowds presented no problem to him. He burst through the cathedral's great doors, alerting the silent sentinels who put their weapons down as they realised his identity. Into the pillared hall, and a concerned Gwyn was flanked by Ornstein, Artorias and Ciaran.

And so the situation was outlined to him, and he was sent on his way to Oolacile, but before he left, he was sure to drop off his ring near his fellow giant. He would appreciate the expert craftsmanship, and he felt that this would be one of his last outings. The worst thing would be for the ring to be lost forever. Anyway, in Oolacile, the denizens had stopped contacting Lordran, and travellers were reporting suspicious activity. If it were brigands, Gough's imposing stature may frighten them into obedience. If negotiation was necessary, Gough's etiquette and supposed understanding of human politics would serve him well. His literal presence was to be felt, a symbol so that he would truly stand out among the humans and remind them of Lordran's presence. But Gough would have chosen any other of the Four Knights.

The humans would probably fear him and not cooperate willingly, he would be seen as an enforcer rather than an emissary. Artorias had expressed concern for the kingdom, and in Gough's mind was a far better choice. He was well regarded by the humans and seen as a noble barrier against evil. Ornstein would also have shown the splendour of Lordran, that they could clad a warrior in gold while he shoots lightning. Ciaran would blend in with the humans, but her unease around them would come out rather soon. Maybe Gough at least was a better choice than her. In truth, Gwyn's mind had not been sound recently, he was distracted by something, and he had become haggard and weak. More worries to pile upon their already troubled leader.

He had arrived at one of the lesser known entrances to Oolacile, but the only one he knew of that he could fit through. Devoid of all human life, there was nothing but the rustling in the trees and scurrying of animals in the undergrowth. _Scurrying in the same direction, _Gough noted. He decided not to linger and get on with the task at hand. A short walk across a moss covered and slightly cracked stone bridge, which Gough was forced to shuffle across. With his head in the treetops, he saw the gardeners and the guardians that acted the labourers and muscle for Oolacile, a famously peaceful nation. If anyone were to invade, for whatever reason as Oolacile didn't really have anything worth taking, than they would have to contest with the Sanctuary Guardians, hulking warriors who had devoted their whole lives to the defence of the land. Royal Wood usually had so many sights of nature to behold, but today it was unusually quiet, and the Guardians didn't as much as acknowledge him.

The first person he met was a wiry looking man who was hunched over and staring blankly at the forest. Gough was surprised to see that he didn't flee as he got close, but did look incredibly nervous, eyes darting from side to side as his lips twitched. He didn't make any reaction as Gough arrived by his side. "Good morrow to thee, human. Canst thou show me to a member of the council?" Only now did he look at Gough's face, or rather his helmet, and expressed surprise and them annoyance, as if a deep thought had been disturbed. "Oh…a council representative…I…err, if you err…would follow…me…" He mumbled, speaking like an old man despite not looking over thirty.

_Clearly there is something very wrong here, _Gough thought. Upon entering urban Oolacile, he was greeted by an unflattering sight. The buildings still stood with Oolacile's passive architecture, filled with plants that suggest a closeness with nature. But it was much too dark, as if the sun was constantly behind a cloud, and no one stood in the middle of the paths, the few people that were there were huddled under shade or in doorways. And it was also much too quiet, and Gough saw that no one was speaking, people were just doing their duties in silence, or staring at the ground. Gough's guide caught the eye of a man in flowing blue robes with a silver trim, his face gaunt and stern with short black hair, striking green eyes and the smallest five o'clock shadow.

"Ahh, you…must be Hawk-eye Gough." He began, his face remaining expressionless. He spoke oddly, putting emphasis on the wrong parts of words and sentences as if he had a stammer that would appear once in places of his choosing. "A plea-sure to make thine acquaintance. I am Tobias. I under-stand you are…h-here to report back to Lor-dran." Gough felt gradually more uneasy around him, as if he was in control without seeming to be, that his words said he was bowing to Gough, but his eyes were sharp and implied a maliciousness of some trick that Gough was missing. "Indeed. It was seem there have been some disturbing reports. Might I inquire if there was any problems of note?" Gough made sure to speak slowly and surely, if only to give him a longer break from the madness surrounding him.

"No, no…everyth-ing is quite fine here. You can…tell your mas-ters that we are simply ren-ovating." But Gough was no longer looking at him, the clouds of smoke in the distance had roused his interest. Oolacile had no industry to speak of other than the occasional mining of fine jewels, but this was seen as an art rather than a labour. "I think I would prefer to look around." Gough growled, lowering his voice even more to try and assert his authority. "Then all-ow me to accompany you." He replied, and then shot the other man a look which suggested that he come along. Gough wanted to go down the side streets but they were far too narrow for him to traverse. He now saw the source of the smoke, huge furnaces that were deep in the lower part of the township, the exhaust ranging from misty to thick black smog which he could only see from the walkway's edge.

As Gough's eyes drifted to see a reason for this sudden industrialisation, he noticed several tattered workers, skin black with dirt and their feet clasped in chains. Oolacile had never before engaged in slave labour, or most manual work, and this was serious cause for concern. One of the smoke towers smelled wrong, like burnt meat but more sickly. He scanned the base if the stack, and saw what appeared to be an arm poking out of the furnace door, when it was promptly shoved back in by a labourer. Gough recoiled from the side, feeling sick and turning to the two men accompanying him, innocent facial expressions. "The dead." The wiry man muttered. "There…err…has been an awful…sickness in the lower part of the town." He rubbed his hands together, still hunched, eyes wide that looked as though they were about to cry. Gough wasn't convinced and resolved to search every inch of this kingdom before he returned to Anor Londo. And then he would return with the full force of the gods if need be.

Storming off further into the city with the two men scurrying to keep up, Gough heard the sound of crying, and then screaming that reminded him of a bleating child when their favourite toy was taken away. He descended a few winding alleys before he came to the source of the noise, a square, brick, single storey building that was at the end of a wide road, broken up only by a small plaza with a statue in the centre. Sounds echoed from the building, shouts and metal clanking. As Gough cautiously crawled in on his hands and knees as the doorway couldn't accommodate him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a shirt man with cropped hair prodding a screaming man chained to the wall.

There were others chained up as well, but a few were limp and looked as if they had been literally drained, the skin tight over their bones and mouths agape with eyeless holes. The torturer turned to Gough and spoke in a high, strained voice. "They have been _very _naughty." He divulged and then giggled. "Yes, they must be told off. They are badly behaved." A disturbing grin grew across his face. Only now did the two other men appear, their faces revealing that they didn't want Gough to see this. The councillor mumbled something about 'humanity' and looked at the floor. The whole place had gone mad. Determined to take action, Gough flicked the torturer out of the way. He only used his finger but it still sent the small man sprawling. Gough ripped the prisoners from their chains, letting them fall to the ground and gasp for breath. _Something wholly unnatural is occurring here. _

He was about to apprehend the other two, before more screams went up, back in the township. A shadow crossed speed across the ground as Gough left the building and saw a huge bat in the sky. A single orange light stood out against the darkness. "_Kalameet_" Gough hissed. So the dragon had made its way here. In his mind Gough picture the swathes of comrades it had desolated, the torture it had caused people he knew. Well he was not going to stand by as it destroys this town and its people. Heart pumping, Gough leapt and grabbed a wall nearby, pulling himself up to the higher walkway, startling several citizens. Pounding forward, Gough reached where he had set down his weighty bow in the centre of the arena-like structure near the entrance. Kalameet had risen higher, so Gough decided he needed a vantage point.

A nearby tower had several handholds which he exploited to reach the summit. But before he could even shoulder an arrow, Kalameet had fled far beyond his range, diving into a valley and staying there. No doubt he would return, and Gough intended to be waiting when he did. Hours, and eventually days passed, and Gough did not waver, remaining vigilant throughout. He felt incredibly fatigued, and keeping his eyes open was a chore, never mind shouldering his bow. Perhaps sleep would be best, so that when the dragon did arrive he would be at his most effective. He slept for no more than two hours, but when he awoke all was dark. There was no glare of any sort, which Gough found odd. He swivelled his eyes, and that was when Gough realised.

He was completely blind. And then the most terrible cry went up, a deep moan that shook the foundations of the tower. Followed by the cries of a city in pain. All in the darkness.

* * *

Removing his helmet had never occurred to Gough, removing his helmet would be like asking someone to remove their nose or ears, it was as much a part of his head as his skull. Sitting and carving was his life now. They offered a chance to put his thoughts into reality and convey his feelings in something physical. In truth, Gough hoped he would see something in the carvings. _Ha, see_. Gough tittered at his own disability. But in all seriousness, the carvings might have offered some form of enlightenment, a realisation to his purpose. Gough had had a purpose, but he had lost it some time ago. Escape may be possible, but the world didn't trouble him up here, and what use was he to anyone now? No, much better to wait and think, living out the rest of his days fashioning portraits in wood. So simple yet so complex.

His thoughts were disrupted by a screech, the cry of a man and a beast at the same time. Much of Artorias' time was spent like this, prowling the arena and the nearby town, likening any living creature as a foe. Originally, there had been indications of his old friends still being there, he was fighting his actions and desperately trying to hold back the onslaught the Abyss was so desperately trying to make him commit. But now, he was little more than a meat puppet. Manus had burst the Abyss into Oolacile, corrupting its citizens and sorceries, making them twisted, perverted and tortured creatures, and Artorias was his prize catch. The sadistic irony that he has become the very thing he swore to destroy, how wholly unfair the world really was that such a pure hearted individual would endure such a fate.

More screams from Artorias, and then the clash of steel. Another poor soul who would feel the former knight's wrath. The fight lasted longer than usual, but ultimately the dark knight prevailed, giving a hollow howl as the Abyss filled him completely, the sound akin to a burning flame that had water dripped on it, powerful but hissing all the same. Maybe Gough could kill him himself. Bah, a fool's notion. Another part of his head called him craven, how can you stand idly by while the Abyss leaves destruction in its wake? But mostly he was content to listen. As of now, Artorias had confined himself to the township, Gough might only antagonise him. He tried to remember the last thing Artorias had said to him. _Travel safe, Hawkeye. Don't steal all our glory. _What glory now Artorias? How could this hold any broken sense of glory?

* * *

**Note: And there you have the last story of the Four Knights of Gwyn. Hope they were enjoyable. Next chapter will look at Havel's experiences and how his actions shake the very foundations of Lordran.**


	6. The Rock Bishop

_It is dangerous to be right in matters on which the established authorities are wrong-Voltaire_

Their enemies stood resolute, using all manner of weapons available to halt the advance. The mountain stood in their path. A swipe of claws, a gnashing of death, hellfire rained down from all angles.

The mountain crawled on.

Occasionally their attacks would chip off shards of granite, falling deep into the abyss that may be the afterlife. Sometimes the shards fell off but did not splinter, some innate force trying to make the shards regroup with the rest of the structure, that individually they are small, but as one they are solid.

The mountain crawled on.

What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Everything else gets damaged. Shards still fell, but far too few to make a difference, and the enemy that were strong by themselves but small in number were falling just as fast as the shards of the mountain. Their wrath deflected of the rough surface, impacting on smooth steel that happened to be a conductor of heat. Lighter than stone it may be, but pure strength was the factor here. The full force of their enemy's fury was upon them now, a fury that would make common men weep and soldiers abandon all hope.

The mountain crawled on.

Despite their immense power, despite their scorching flames, despite their keen claws, the dragons were pushed back, crushed under the unstoppable weight of the mountain. Cornered, the dragons banded together, making their hate drive them.

The mountain then split. Each shard stood not five yards further than each other, with one shard, a great shard that stood at the very front. Every man was clad in stone, their feet sinking into the ground, that the very earth itself could not withstand them. Each man had a club of sorts, ranging from the length of a man's arm to the length of a man's body, held over their shoulders. Even their plumes were slabs of cliff. The leader stood at the helm, a mighty shield before him. The warriors behind him were utterly obedient to him, loyal to the point of fanaticism, respecting no law but the word of their leader. None of them carried shields, their leader was their shield and carried a shield that represented the great defensive burden he carried for all of them. If they forfeited their duty, no shield would save them from the wrath of the horrors they fought. The warriors were soldiers and priests, teachers and inquisitors, their appearance struck fear into the hearts of all not just for their armour but their reputation as well. They were tempered in brutality and born in conflict. No act was too hard or too morally dubious if achieved the desired end. After all, the end is all that is left once a deed is done.

The leader stepped forth, and held his iron-wrought club high. He brought it down of the outstretched neck of an everlasting dragon, one that was about to savage his own superior, Gwyn, Lord of Cinder. No words were needed, as the stone warriors charged forward and the dragons suddenly knew what it was to be like on the end of a fury as ferocious as their own. The blow as severed the dragon's spine, the shockwave breaking it in a further three places. The granite leader wrenched open its jaw and reached for a large canine protruding from its gums. In a show of strength that didn't seem possible in a man not much larger than a human, he ripped the tooth clean out from its perch in one motion. Carrying it in both hands, he bent before Lord Gwyn and presented it to him. Then, not willing to abandon his warriors, Havel the Rock got to his feet, held his greatshield before him and threw himself into the fray.

* * *

Havel mumbled the verse to himself, mulling over the lyrics. He shook his head and crossed out a line of words that he had written on a tattered scroll with an inked quill. The words just didn't sound right in his head. He was about to continue writing when there was a knock on the door. "Come in" Havel boomed, his voice sounding like a giant's. A small boy who couldn't have been more than ten entered, dressed in simple clothing with a rough tunic over his shirt. He seemed quiet timid, despite Havel only being in his formal garments as armour tends to be a bit cumbersome for handwriting. "What is the matter at hand?" Havel asked him, trying to speak softly to calm him down, but coming across as gruff anyway.

"C-Crandor has requested your presence. He is waiting by the gate." He said, quietly and without looking Havel directly in the eye, as if his gaze would turn him to stone. Havel thought for a moment on what the lad had just told him, and what this might mean. He stood up and pushed his chair under his desk when he saw the boy eyeing what he had been working on. "A new miracle I'm devising." Havel said, reading the messenger's thoughts. "It builds upon the basics of Magic Barrier. But will be far more effective." _Perhaps a final solution to the problem of sorcery. _The young boy suddenly seemed fascinated with the piece of paper that had smudges and scribbles all over it. "Do you know much about miracles?" Havel asked him.

"I've only heard of them. Apparently your body becomes possessed by the gods and they can give you great powers." He said, mouth agape and eyes wide. This promoted a chuckle from the bishop.

"No, not quite like that. You see, everyone has the potential to be a conduit for the gods. Anyone has the ability within them to use miracles, they just need to practice; only the devout can cast more advanced miracles. Once you have apt knowledge of the gods, proved your faith and understand the verses can you use these powers. The words merely unlock the power, a medium for you to use the spells of the gods. That is why making new ones is so difficult. The words must mean something, often a verse from a holy text, and allow you to focus divine abilities." Havel realised he was prattling on and probably confusing the child. But he did love to share the works of the gods, all ones great and small, and to instruct members of the faith.

He ushered the boy out of his chambers and set off for the castle gates. Havel's Fortress was a sturdy structure, made of the same rock as his armour but less condensed. It rose high and had facilities of all kinds, but was a defensive structure first and foremost. There was only one gate, and it was half a foot of steel portcullis which could only be lifted by a giant. The way to it was a narrow walkway above a high fall into the forest below. They would then have to fight their way through multiple passageways that were four abreast at their widest. Then, at its summit, it had a wide open rooftop that opened the enemy to attacks from all sides. All guarded by Havel's Warriors. The fortress was the only way into Anor Londo, at the end a large passageway through the mountains that led to the City of the Gods. Havel walked past multiple statues of several different deities and soldiers, standing as tall as a man or in small cubbies in the wall. The fortress' chapel was vast, almost as large as its mess hall, and there was more than one. If needs be, they were only a short walk from the local church where congregations from the nearby burg would gather every holy day. Despite being a fortification, their home was still well equipped for peace time.

Havel reached the impressive portcullises, Crandor standing in their centre. The fact that he was in battle gear was the first thing Havel noticed. "My Lord." He greeted Havel as he approached, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Havel tapped him on the shoulder to signal him to stand up. "I understand you wished to speak with me." Havel began.

"Yes my Lord." Crandor responded. "It would seem your suspicions were confirmed. There are several unaccounted absences from the clergy." He took a short pause before continuing. "And all are female." This worried Havel, very much so as he was always protective of members of the church. The maidens had an important role in the church, tending to the sick and infirmed and overseeing the day to day duties. There is no way they could have antagonised anyone, that these poor, innocent girls were being stolen through no fault of their own. What their captor intended to do with them was another matter, and could be all manner of perversions and sick practices. Havel noticed that Crandor was still waiting patiently for his next command. "Thank you, Crandor. And thank the deacons for discovering this. You may continue with your normal duties, I shall make this matter my top priority." With that Crandor made a curt bow and turned to walk away. Already a plan was formulating in Havel's mind. It would be risky, and he would have to time it right, but if he pulled it off he could purge the very source of this crime.

By the next morning, Havel had persuaded a young maiden to aid them in their exploits. He assured her that his legendary warriors would be protecting her the whole way but she was still understandably worried. People with no combat experience were sporadic and subject to stress, causing them to act in impulsive ways that would often create some sort of problem. The best thing to do was keep her in her comfort zone and ensure she is utterly calm before they begin.

He waited for evening, just as the sun was setting, before ushering her to a rather deserted shrine on the edge of the forest with the burg still in sight but with no one around. They waited for a few hours, she was kneeling in prayer by a small statue, a small well and a few bricks on her right. The moonlight allowed Havel to see that tears were streaming down her face as she tried to keep her composure. She probably knew full well that someone or something would try to snatch her and Havel felt sympathetic. He was cloaked in tree cover, feeling uncomfortable himself. Skulking on the shadows was definitely not his strong suit, something he rather left to the Lord's Blades. A rustling not ten yards from him caught his attention. The maiden noticed it as well, but tried to hide it. She had begun shaking and taking short sharp breaths. From the tree cover emerged a Channeler, trident pointing at the maiden who was now frozen with fear. Without a second thought Havel broke from his own cover and raced at the sorcerer, who noticed the bishop all too late. Havel sunk a stone fist so hard into the Channeler's face that it dented its helmet and crushed one of its eye holes.

Of course Seath would be involved. Of course sorcery would be involved. That godless, impure form of magic all instigated by that traitor. Only the faithful may succeed at miracles, but sorcery allowed power to remain unchecked. He had seen first-hand the damage sorcery could do, harming offender and innocent alike. The monstrous consequences that occur when a spell or experiment fails, how sorcerers will stop at nothing to receive limitless power and all the evil creation of that freak. Havel had devoted so many countermeasures against this type of magic, and now they had finally brought the war to him. Painful memories were brought back up, memories Havel would rather not tinker with. It almost brought tears to his eyes the damage that sorcery has caused to his life alone. _No, I must remain focussed on the task at hand._ He would not fail in his duty, he would purge this stain from the very earth.

His questioning had been swift and heavy-handed and the Channeler had spilled his guts rather soon, giving him access to a restricted portion of the Duke's Archives. Havel decided to follow this lead immediately, detaining the Channeler in his fortress for further interrogation. Struggling for grip on the grassy verges, knowing full well that a slip would result in death from the cliff's edge, he edged round to the back of the Archives. Finally stepping onto solid ground, he followed the smooth stone wall and found a small wooden doorway set flush with the rest pf the building. He pushed the key into the lock, and eased the door open.

* * *

It had taken months of preparation, but Havel the Rock knew he was finally ready. He hadn't shaved in a while and coupled with eyes that had not seen sleep for two days it gave him a slightly crazed look that he was worried would concern his men. Although, he must be at least half-crazed. He was hesitant about his plan, but ultimately it was the right thing to do. The fate of those poor maidens, maidens that he had sworn to keep safe and protect, and now they lived a fate worse than death. He was fighting against what he had helped build. However, these actions, they were barbaric, actions that they had waged war to halt, and yet here was Lord Gwyn, condoning them. If he would block his path to Seath then so be it, he would just have to strike down his greatest friend as well.

Velka was quick to latch onto his idea; the heretic would normally have been assaulted by Havel there and then but she had offered considerable support for his cause. The Dark Ember was indeed a mighty thing, and something that should not fall into the wrong hands. He would be battling lifelong friends, people he had taught and fought with. If it would right so many wrongs, then the sacrifice was necessary. Lordran needn't be destroyed, simply cleansed of sorcery and all who would defend it. Hopefully, the Lords would see his side and bloodshed could be avoided. But Havel was under no illusion of what would likely happen. His vindictive way of thinking had one clear goal, and no amount of collateral damage would stop him.

His warriors had assembled with him on the roof of the fortress, a stout force if there ever was one. No speech was needed, no rousing cry. He simply thrust his arm in the air and the warriors beat their chestplates creating a deafening sound. At that, they marched on Anor Londo.

Everyone knew the plan, and it had eluded to every eventuality. They stopped just before the gates of Anor Londo, as Havel went inside alone. If he did not return fast enough, his followers would assume he and fallen and have to continue his cause. No more violence than necessary. Havel strode all the way to the great hall in full combat dress, alerting several people, but never being stopped. He stood at the great doors, and turned to look at the sun. "SEATH!" He bellowed in a voice that could be heard all around Lordran. Everyone in Anor Londo stopped what they were doing, those in sight looked at the mad bishop with a mixture of surprise and confusion. His hatred of sorcery was no secret but he wouldn't dare turn against Lord Gwyn, his trusted companion and good friend, so what could be happening here? "SEATH!" Havel called again, in an equally loud tone. "SEATH!" His voice never faltered, and he kept calling for what seemed like an age. People only looked on, not daring to approach the enraged bishop lest he turn his anger on them.

Finally, a roar in the distance heralded him, and he saw the albino dragon emerge from his Archives, out from the rock he had been snivelling under. "SEATH! COME AND DIE LIKE THE REST OF YOUR BROTHERS!" Every time he called he remembered a different face that sorcery had harmed, the tortured forms of those hapless maidens. He would smite this dragon, he would break him so hard they would have to sweep his remains off the streets. The flying figure was gradually getting closer, the very sight of him making Havel boil over with rage. His weapon quivered in his hand and he clenched his teeth so hard he almost burst a blood vessel. He actually rattled inside his armour he was so angry.

The dragon finally landed before him, giving a defiant roar that reminded Havel of a cat trying to growl. He didn't waste time with words. All the faces flashed before him. He would not fail them, he would not disrespect them. Havel swung a blow that would have splintered anyone of normal size, throwing all his weight forward, knowing he was not facing a normal foe that may capitalise on his overextension. The crystals on Seath's stomach were pulverised and flew off in chunks. The Dragon Tooth sunk deeper into the Godfather of Sorcery, sending a jolt down Havel as bones were snapped and flesh was bruised, capillaries and veins tearing apart and wreaking havoc with internal bleeding. Yet Seath seemed unmoved by the blow, as his front snapped back into position and bruises disappeared before Havel's eyes. It was like nothing he had ever seen. Far beyond the abilities of Replenishment, even a Great Heal. There was no sorcery capable of restoring the body. How could Seath have done such a thing, with seemingly no effort on his part? "What devilry is this, traitor? Do you just follow one heresy with another?" Havel spat and yelled simultaneously, preparing another blow by lifting the club over his head. Thrice more Havel struck, and thrice more his foe's injuries were healed as soon as they appeared. His adversary made no move to attack him. Havel looked up at the dragon, and despite his blank eyes there seemed to be something mocking about his expression.

Gwyn had finally emerged onto the courtyard that Havel in the centre of. There was an absence of a certain Four Knights, probably away on some task or errand, so he was flanked by two silver knights. Would they even be told of what had transpired here? Their Lord looked old and haggard, as if the weight of the world had set itself upon him. He had a bewildered expression on his face. "Havel? What is the meaning of this?" He tried to sound assertive, but only sounded confused. More silver knights had appeared, tipping the situation against Havel. The sight of Gwyn gave him a mixed feeling, ranging from pity to respect to hatred for his condolence of sorcery, that he could let a creature so vile commit so many atrocities. The sun in Anor Londo rained light down as hard as ever, in utter defiance of the situation.

Havel's Warriors would still be waiting at the gates, but not for much longer. Soon the fair city would be rushed, buildings likely raised to the ground and loyal soldiers struck down for no crime. The true gravity of the situation hit Havel hard, so many would likely die. "Your men will die Havel." Gwyn began, interrupting his thoughts. "A stern defence will meet them. Boulders will come crashing down and halt them where they stand." Gwyn knew what would truly make him pause, that the safety of his followers was ingrained into Havel, as much an instinct as anything else. How long had he known of his rebellion, if at all? But his resolve didn't die, he refused to forget his purpose.

Screams penetrated the air, followed by clashing metal and thundering crashes of rock. One of Havel's lieutenants had already made his way up to his leader, stone armour spattered with blood. A silver knight rushed to meet him, but failed to avoid the swing of an enormous club, pancaking the knight. His spine was almost crushed upon itself, and he was dead almost instantaneously as his nervous system was severed. It felt wrong to Havel, but before he could say anything, a huge arrow hit the warrior in the gap between his shoulder and neck. The armour halted most of it, but it still nicked the back of his neck, sending a spray of blood in the air and paralysing him. The lieutenant fell to the ground, still alive but unable to show it. Now Havel cried out, in fury and in pain, that he had failed his men and left them to die for a hopeless cause.

More warriors had reached the walkway, but most were gaunt and limping. Battle could still be heard below him. For the last time, Havel the Rock used his giant of a voice. "STOP!" He screamed, rasping his throat dry. The cry shook Anor Londo itself and ensured that no blade moved and no bow sang. His Warriors immediately fell to one knee, zealously awaiting the word of their leader. There was only one way he could stop this, one way he could salvage the remaining lives. His soldiers had trusted him to be their rock, and he had betrayed them. He felt an utter failure, that he had let those in his care come to harm to bring all that he had worked so hard to defend crashing down around him. Where he had been so forthright before, he now felt guilty and confused, unable to discern a clear way of thinking. Slowly, almost embarrassed-like, Havel surrendered himself and the Occult Rebellion went put not with a bang, but with a whimper.

* * *

He waits the ending of the world at the base of an old watchtower, long abandonded and forsaken. He may have been able to escape and break the door, but it was likely magically protected and who was he to disobey the word of Havel the Rock? The room was dark and damp, not so much falling into disrepair as being eaten by nature. Moss had forced itself through cracks and broke up the indifferent brick work with flashes of green and waterfalls of moisture.

His armour sits heavily on his shoulders, the cast iron chains holding slabs of rock together. In his hands he wields the renowned Dragon Tooth and Greatshield of Bishop Havel. Mighty heirlooms they may be, but he dare not touch the sacred artefacts of the mighty Havel, instead using these well-made imitations. Those, along with all his other equipment, was stored in secret in Anor Londo, awaiting a worthy successor to the Rock's apparel. What a shame it would be for that armour to never halt another blow, for the shield to never block another magical strike, for that tooth to never again taste battle.

He treasures the ring on his finger, a symbol of faith in the heroic Havel that allows him to follow his leader without burden of the heavy equipment he bears. Havel himself needed not this boon, he could carry his soldiers on his own shoulders, having the strength and endurance to fight in such weighty arms with alarming speed. It is said that Havel's Greatshield truly had the power to turn a man to stone. If only his replica could pay such a fitting tribute. Not wanting to withstand the shame of exile, or the mind decaying passing of the ages, Havel had wished to die in battle. But he also did not want his final act to be a betrayal to Lord Gwyn, who, could not bring himself to kill his battlefield companion. So he, a mere human, had volunteered to take the punishment in Havel's stead, who was died secretly with his own soldiers. He had his head struck off by his own Dragon Tooth, and was allowed to fall with the friends who would follow him to the end of the Abyss and back.

The ring was the only connection he had left to the noble order and to his glorious leader, and he treasured it greatly. He had developed an unhealthy attachment to it, but it was likely the only thing keeping him sane, allowing him to keep a grip on his mind. Alas, a human would be dust by now, but as if imprisonment wasn't enough, he was also cursed. He could feel his sanity slipping away with every passing minute. The reminder of the life he did have in service to The Rock.

"Are you a man of peace or man of holy war?" Havel would ask his warriors. Every one of them knew they were fighting for a cause, unified behind one leader with one purpose. Unfortunately, they lost all purpose with the death of the great Bishop, and the order fell apart. _Trust in Havel, _he reminds himself. _He was our shield, and he shall guard you now. _If he could focus his mind, surely he could imitate the state of vindication Havel had demonstrated, the cool and collected frame of mind that allowed him to follow his purpose. If he trusted in all he had believed in, in Havel the Rock.

Bishop Havel.

Havel the Rock.

Havel the Rock.

Havel.

Havel.

Hav…

Ha…

H…

H…

…

…

…

* * *

**Note: Crandor-Fictional member of Havel's Warriors**

**That's the end of Havel's chapter. It took me a bit longer than expected as some other things got in the way. If you notice any spelling/grammatical errors that make you want to shank me with a rusty nail, please let me know ASAP. Next chapter will involve the Father of the Abyss and will probably be a bit shorter than the previous ones, so it should be here soon!**


	7. The Primeval Father

_He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man-Samuel Johnson_

There was nothing but blackness, nothing that could be described as shapes. The sensation was calm and fluid, but an odd sense of unease could be felt underneath, like something was missing. A physical ache was felt deep in his lower back, like awakening after a long time in slumber. Then, all of a sudden, light ripped through the dark, piercing his eyes and burning them after so long in the void. Colour wrapped itself around him and ensnared his small and frail body, lifting him off the ground. Thoughts, feelings and memories came flooding back and he felt coherent for the first time in an age. Life, the very essence of existence, filled his hollow body and brought back sight and smell, hearing and speaking. He looked down at his hand, clenching and tensing them to confirm that he finally had control over a body, a physical form. His experience in death was all forgotten as the elation of life again took hold.

But another part of him felt awkward. This was wrong, what is dead should be left to die, if he was dead at all. Was he just in eternal slumber or was he truly dead? He still gripped the tiny dark sprite, which longed to use energy again, but another side knew that having his chance again was unnatural and could only end in disaster. But ultimately, he gave in to instinct and regained his own senses. The cavern he stood in was dark, but lit with torches and he could still see. The ground was solid rock apart from a few patches of dirt. A person sized hole was cut into the floor, which he recognised as a grave.

There were people standing around him, maybe five figures gently illuminated by the light. Humans. Humans! His children had come for him, to see their father and have him lead them to a greater age! Or maybe merely to pay tribute to their creator, a curiosity that culminated in his discovery! He was elated and excited and…and…in pain. In terrible, terrible pain. It hurt, it hurt so much and it hurt everywhere. His very bones were burning and his flesh was falling from him. His skin was flaking and cracking, being torn from his very being by an invisible force. He looked at himself, and he looked perfectly normal. But the feelings he felt said different, that his body was destroying itself from the inside, and blood was falling freely from his nose and eyes. Pain soon turned itself to anger and he was mad at everything and everyone, and they all must be punished.

The humans were reaching out to him now. They were helping him, they saw their father was ill and are trying to comfort him. But instead they touched him, and pushed hard, and if they were trying to push right through him and pull his heart out. The Furtive Pygmy was still injured, and was trying to release himself from the pain, and didn't fully notice or understand what was happening. He clutched the scrappy remainders of the Dark Soul tightly, as if it would shatter if he dropped it. The humans were talking amongst themselves in heated discussion and if the Primeval Human had observed them thoroughly, he might have seen that something wasn't quite right about them, that none of them seemed genuine, like they were just puppets with hollow personalities.

With the Pygmy writhing in pain, he had a far looser grip on the soul in his arms. The humans, as one, eerily in synchronisation, reached for the tiny sprite, a mere sliver of the original and once great Lord Soul, the polar opposite of the Light Soul. Their hands closed around it, rather tightly. While it may look ethereal and weightless, the soul have a strong substance indeed and was as solid as stone.

The Original Human suddenly realised what was transpiring and was able to ignore his pain for a second and yank the precious soul away from the incredibly weak attempt to snatch it from him. How dare they? His children, his creations, and they would be so insolent, so brainless to think that they can simply grab the mighty Dark Soul? How can they not understand what would happen? The Dark Soul is never static, it changes and adapts to its possessor. The human form was frail, as was the Furtive Pygmy when he found the soul within the flame and meant that humans relish life because any day could be their last.

As he did with any stressful situation, the Pygmy subconsciously reached for the pendant that lay upon his neck. But his hands only fell upon empty space. And then panic set in. His pendant, his precious pendant, the thing that had been with him from the start. It was like a living thing to him, another friend, a family member even that he could share his innermost thoughts. It was a primal and instinctive notion, but he had such a deep-seated attachment to it that he couldn't ignore the emotions that surged up from some forgotten recess. And now it was gone, the other half of him was gone and the pain was replaced by pure rage.

The hate surged through him, filling his every pore with blind anger, he felt like he could flatten all of civilisation with his sense of loss alone. The Dark Souls however, latched onto his feelings, still raw from his recent awakening and fluid in nature. The soul then used his own resentment against him, smothering the hapless Pygmy in swathes of dark and emotion, pure instinct and primitive thoughts wrecked his brain and burst through orifices in his body. The Dark Soul had weaved its will once again, and now the Furtive Pygmy was the image of destruction.

Primeval Man was no more. Manus had been awoken.

With naught but the power of his mind, Manus wrenched open a fissure on the cavern floor, a chasm that broke the already thin barrier between The Abyss and the Material Plane. Otherworldly energy poured into reality, filling the cavern with a vicious energy that Manus felt utterly in tune with. The bones within him broke and reformed, the soul spent the remainder of its power and gifted Manus with a form of devastation in the style of abyssal corruption. He grew and grew, the hair upon him sprouted and flowered. A tail whipped out from behind him, and demonic antlers burst from his skull in both an awesome and gory display that tore his flesh asunder as he was shrouded in a skin of darkness. All upon his head there were red eyes that sliced through inky black air, gifting him with unparalleled sight.

The humans, utterly awestruck and immovable with fear were set upon by Manus. He needed only to clench his hand and he could feel their humanity, small and weak. His mind reached I to them, and clasped their humanity. He ripped and tore, bent and broke until the shape was of his design, and the humans were reborn amidst crippling deformities and stinking mucus. He could see through their eyes as they saw through their own, his children were finally bonded to him completely. They were strong and obedient, everything they had never been.

A cyclone of emotion ruled Manus, the physical pain subsiding and replaced by a stabbing in his core, a loss and misery that must be corrected. The wrenching nostalgia compelled him to reclaim the precious pendant, the object of obsession that he would stop at nothing to reclaim. While elation would have hit Manus at the retrieval of this priceless and irreplaceable object, it would not be enough. The world must be punished and reformed, for stealing his pendant. He would make them strong, and he would be with him always, and for that they would be thankful.

The Abyss was gradually spreading, and gave a distinctive sweet smell to Manus as its toxic fumes grew. The corruption was still young, and lacked the potency of the True Abyss but would serve well all the same. There was so much humanity around him, fragments of his discovery and his nurturing. It was his to do as he pleased. Reaching into their minds, he saw confusion and emptiness, the recurring face of a toothy serpent in their mind's eye. A creature of the dark, as he was now. Yet it was void of the tiny black sprite and outside Manus' control. As long as he steered clear of his purpose, Manus was happy. He could hear quiet thoughts, words of encouragement and approval, but also knowledge that the force of nature could not be controlled or possessed, only set loose.

In truth, Manus was not a villain, or even realise that he was perceived as evil, only that he had a task and was hell-bent on achieving it. That crucible of conflicting feelings within him was bubbling over, and simply ended in an aggressive and violent nature. All he needed was his pendant, and the memories would return and he could be at peace.

* * *

As the last sprite was twisted by Manus, he could see all around the lost land of Oolacile. A whole kingdom had fallen to his will, and yet there was still no sign of his invaluable keepsake. Even scouring different realms of time had proved fruitless and energy consuming. The pendant called to him and he somehow knew that he would feel it from half a world away.

Soon his influence would spread across all of existence, and nothing would be safe from him. He would, _he must,_ reclaim what was stolen and then unleash a miasma of darkness across a realm of light. Even as he thought this to himself, Manus was confused, conflicting thoughts and senses that voiced their views as one, all at once making him benevolent, misguided, lost, happy, sad, angry and evil. It was almost like he was a mesh of several organisms, as each emotion was given a personality of its own that took it in turns to rule him from time to time.

He did not see the dark as evil, far from it he saw it as the raw energy of life itself. One must detach themselves from the traditional prejudices of light and the absence of it. Fire can gift warmth, but it can also burn without discrimination or discernment. Dark can obscure things from view, but it can also hide one's self. There was no good or evil, the disparity that this world was built upon was wrong and against the flow of nature, which is why the Abyss must rise and devour all, make a new grey that is the Abyss.

Manus began to feel a slight tingle within him, a rekindling of ancient feelings that would make him complete. Across centuries of time, he felt it calling to him. If only it would come closer, and he could reach out and grab it…

The eyes of his children then began to go out, one by one the red lights were turned off. Peering through their vision, he saw a righteous knight and his canine companion killing their way to his lair. Gradually, the aggression took over Manus, and he became more of a brutal force rather than a thinking creature. But still, the different parts of him called, albeit more quietly now. In this knight he saw no blackness, nothing to change the unanimous sense of purity. The Father of the Abyss saw his opportunity. Another method of returning his pendant.

He could make him his pawn, if he could only relinquish the beast for a moment. Apart of him said use this pawn, make him a servant of your absolute will. But another part of him, a larger part of him, felt nothing but rage and hate and wrath and pain. And it was time to unleash these things upon the world.

* * *

**Note: The shortest real chapter yet, but I hope no less entertaining. I was always interested in Manus' side of the story, and felt (see Dusk's dialogue) that it wasn't mostly his fault that he ended up as an antagonist, and I hope you like the change up of looking at someone 'evil'. The next portion will look at Paladin Leeroy (Jenkins) on his quest for kindling (chicken). **


	8. The Pious Crusader

_Progress is born of doubt and inquiry. The Church never doubts, never inquires. To doubt is heresy, to inquire is to admit that you do not know—the Church does neither-Robert G. Ingersoll_

Leeroy was sat at an ornate blackwood table, in the chamber of the Bishop himself, alongside many of his esteemed priests. A decision was to be made here today, and thought it may seem small now, Leeroy could sense that it would have enormous repercussions in the future. He looked at the statue of Allfather Lloyd in the wall, and hoped that he would grant him the courage to face the trials ahead.

Leeroy had been indoctrinated into the Church from a very early age, being nurtured for the life of a holy cleric. He was not from a wealthy background and being offered to the Way of White meant his god-fearing family was free of another mouth to feed and could appease their deities. He attended lessons every day and slept in the Church's hostel, seeing little of life outside of the holy veil. Where the other children listened attentively, Leeroy was noted for his innate sense of justice, often standing up to bullies and prepared to act, violently if necessary, to defend his faith. This, when he came of age, enrolled him into a completely different programme.

Paladins were the paragon of holy crusaders, more skilled at arms than the Cleric Knights and still as devout. They were the strong arm of the Church, when they needed a show of strength or problem sorted, a paladin would often be the answer. Yet, they were also pawns, the naive soldiers who served zealously and believed in the pure religiosity of the Church. Leeroy was exempt from this, in that he knew much about the Church's inner politics, and it was less than pure.

There were many who would use faith as a way of achieving their own goals and further their own ambition. While Leeroy followed his own strict code, he would not openly purge the Way of White, after all the common people would surely lose faith. '_Worship the gods, not their followers' _was what he always said, while man can always be corrupted, the gods were still as true as ever.

And now he sat here, before the most important men of god, who would judge his heinous crime. It still disturbed Leeroy himself, how he could be afflicted with the Undead Curse. He was culling hollows, a job he had done regularly in the few years that the curse had been active, when the clerics with him were slaughtered by a squad of undead knights, leaving him surrounded. Leeroy had fallen after a ferocious battle, but instead of seeing the peaceful embrace of the afterlife, he awoke back by a bonfire of Lord Gwyn where he had said a prayer before setting off. It was then that it was revealed to be the first of the holy flock to be cursed, and he was close to wavering in his faith.

"Leeroy," The Bishop began. "We have reviewed your situation. And your… condition…presents an opportunity." He had a clipped nasal voice that lacked authority, but had a calculating tone all the same. This was a man who always knew what his cards were and how he planned to use them. Nothing would be left to chance. "We've decided to send you on a quest of utmost importance. You are to retrieve the ancient Rite of Kindling from Lordran, Land of the Gods. You are to go alone and shall leave immediately."

Leeroy was left in stunned silence. He was expecting to be excommunicated, and here he was being given a mission that he couldn't refuse. "You'll go down in history, Leeroy." One of the priests said, her hair just visible under a white hood. Leeroy had no interest in fame, he only wanted to serve the gods as best he could. And here was his opportunity. "Of course, your grace. I shall prepare my things." Leeroy answered, trying to keep an even tone.

"Not just yet paladin. We have some gifts to aid you on your pilgrimage. May I present Grant and Sanctus, weapons wielded in the Dragon War and relics of the Church." Three priests stepped forth, one holding Sanctus, two required to carry Grant. "And finally, a white soapstone. Apparently it is of use in the land of the gods." Leeroy accepted them graciously before leaving the chamber. While he was grateful, the decision confused him. Grant was a scared and powerful hammer, but too heavy to be held with human hands. While Leeroy was known for his inhuman strength, both in body and in mind, he would have preferred to use his own blade. And Sanctus' power was all but dried up, a mere flash remaining of this once magnificent shield. They were parade weapons, for show and as reminders of their history. And he was to keep his armour as well. While it had served him well and was still a potent defence, it was tattered and worn and an upgrade was due. And the soapstone. What was he to do with that?

Still, Leeroy was resolute, and left for Lordran on the morrow. He took out a small cloth insignia from his drawers, a sword embedded in a mountain of granite. The words _Inmus bellor confidante lapidem _were inscribed underneath it. In the strength of rock we trust. The ancient symbol of Havel's Warriors. Bishop Havel was a hero of Leeroy's, strong willed and a devout soldier, his men would almost worship him like a god, accepting no word of law but Havel's. His fortress was said to still be in Lordran, standing as proud as it had centuries ago. Leeroy found it odd that there was so little of him in history, as if he had tried to be wiped from the annals, pages torn out of books and records amended. As the original Bishop of the Way of White, he should surely be celebrated. The tales Leeroy had dug up were of great adventures and stories of feats of heroism, his warriors an unstoppable force. He could only imagine what it would have been like to fight beside The Rock.

A grand spectacle was made of his departure, people crowded round streets to see him off and touch his hand for a holy blessing. Once clear of civilisation, it had taken him a further nine days to reach the Land of the Gods. He had to use one of the old and abandoned entrances set deep into the mountains, which saw him emerge at an old and ruined shrine with a bonfire at its crown. The place was completely deserted. The first undead to set foot in Lordran rested by the fire and peered at the scenery around him. The work pf the gods was truly breath-taking, and he decided to return once his task was done and explore this great kingdom.

The Rite of Kindling was rumoured to be somewhere in Gravelord Nito's domain, deep in The Catacombs. Leeroy did not know where this was, but the graveyard a mere fifty yards from the bonfire seemed like a good start. He inspected the graves as he proceeded to a set of descending stairs. As he walked past some of the tombstones, skeletal hands shot from under the ground. Most remained there as the ground was too solid for the dead to move them. However, some graves were poorly packed and skeletons with glowing blue eyes assembled themselves a few feet from Leeroy. They readied scimitars that they seemed to have held beneath the earth.

Leeroy decided to attack quickly, gripping Grant in two hands and bringing it down upon the nearest set of bones. The dense iron not only split the skeleton, but shattered the bones into fragments sending keratin chips spinning off in all directions. The second and third ones backed off slightly, demonstrating a degree of intelligence that alerted Leeroy to the strong magic that was being used to resurrect these bodies. He showed them no respite and swung the hammer in a horizontal swing that hit both of them. There was almost no resistance as their bones were scattered.

Leeroy turned and went down the stairs into The Catacombs. There were a few more skeletons here, but he battled his way through, going further into the earth and found another bonfire in a small room off to his left. There were two corpses slumped against the back wall, but he ignored them and proceeded to the bonfire. "Are you some sort of moth?" A weak and croaky voice asked the paladin. He turned to see one of the corpses was speaking to him. No, not a corpse, merely an injured man, breathing so shallowly that Leeroy had mistaken him for dead. "Drawn to a flame?"

Leeroy stood up and walked over to him and could see a large blood stain on his brown robe, down by his hip. "No, the bonfire, it just…I am undead and it is of comfort to me." Was all Leeroy could do to describe it.

"Undead? Ahh, you mean the curse? Yes, I have heard tale of it. You seem sane enough." He rasped, and then gave a laboured cough. He then gestured to the body beside him. "He is finished. He may well return as a hollow. That would be a travesty. We are both necromancers, while you seem to be a member of the church. I understand if you want to slay me for defiling life, but I was desperate." Leeroy was busy analysing his wound, and let him continue with his story. He may inadvertently give away some advice. "We serve Nito, First of the Dead, and in return he grants us the power to resurrect certain dead ones. Nothing more than skeletons however. The true sanctity of death must be preserved. But, I've been trying to get past this. My wife and child were taken from me, rather cruelly, and I've been obsessing over bringing them back ever since." It was now that Leeroy saw two death masks in his hands, one for the mother and one for the child. They looked eerie with their blank eye sockets, but Leeroy made no comment.

He was sympathetic to the man's plight and decided he would be able to help him. He prepared a Replenishment miracle, touching the man's wound and saying the verse. "That should be fine in a few minutes." Leeroy began, as the bleeding slowed. "Necromancy isn't the answer. Find hope in the gods, place your faith in them and they shall show you the path to walk." He made no reply, and the light didn't allow him to see his expression, but he imagined it was a wry smile. All he did was tug on Leeroy's arm and hand him a sack. "I do not endorse them." The necromancer said, "But you may find them useful."

Without another word, Leeroy stood up and set off. He emerged in an open area, the rest of the tombs carved into the cliff face. It was mostly empty, occasionally corpses of necromancers would be found tucked into corners surrounded by piles of bones. Going deeper still, there was a small graveyard, skeletons waiting for him. He readied Grant but was sprung upon by the most bizarre of enemies.

Floating heads surrounded him, making a squeal before exploding, rocking the ground beneath him and almost tearing his armour clean from his body. Four more were encroaching towards him. Leeroy made a snap decision as he spied a ledge deep into the cavern on his right.

Paladin Leeroy took a leap of faith.

He landed heavily, just on the rock's edge, sending a jarring feeling up his legs and a searing pain in his left ankle and knee. He collapsed on the outcrop, body shaking. He was able to drag himself away from the edge, resting against the opposite side of the cliff. He took a moment to regain his breath and assess his injury. It looked bad, and felt even worse. He was sure he had shattered a bone or tore a ligament, and was worried that his mission would end right here.

Well, he would not die moping. He reached for the soapstone, and carved his name into the rock. If anyone else would make it here, they could carry on the mission in his name. He then let his head loll back as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Several hours later, he was awake and seemingly sound. His bent his knee, and saw that he could stand up perfectly fine. The power of Sanctus had healed him, if slowly. Saying a quick prayer to Lloyd and Gwyn, he scanned the ground below him. There was a cave within sight, and he decided that this was the way to go.

He walked over a stone tomb, and into a very poorly lit gaping cavern. There were seemingly endless drops by walkways that he could barely see. Edging forward ever so slowly, he took out a handful of prism stones. He was conservative with them, dropping them at what he believed to be key points in the path. He held Sanctus before him, trying to make it illuminate the way forward if only slightly.

He was able to make it further down, but not before being jumped by three giant skeletons. He raised Sanctus and somehow blocked a trio of heavy strikes before returning with his own assault. Swinging Grant wildly, he aimed for their legs, trying to knock them off the floor. He was able to crush one, but the other two blocked him. The furthest giant jumped forward, sword in the air. He brought it down on Leeroy, who raised his shield just in time, but was pushed back by the force of the blow. He tried to stop himself, but tripped as his foot stood upon thin air. His hands grasped at nothing, and he fell into the darkness.

He landed with a thud, and nearly slipped off the edge, but was able to embed Grant into the ground and pull himself up. He was even deeper in the chamber now, and surrounded by three skeletons that stood on all fours. Reacting quickly, he unleashed the power within Grant, knocking them back. He followed with a Force, that knocked them all of the ledge before they could so much as yelp.

Scanning the area around him, he saw light in the distance, and sped towards it. "The sun be praised!" Leeroy cried, as he saw sunlight and the open outdoors. Dropping down, he stood on a narrow walkway in the fresh air. He decided to rest for a moment and gather his strength. After a few minutes spent gazing at the marvellous scenery, he stood up and went over to another cave entrance. He pressed on through the darkness, smiting more giants and towers of skeletons, all piled upon one another in a horrific manner. Yet they only slowed him down as he still went forward.

Leeroy stood in a separate cavern, water flowing softly along the ground. He had been plagued by giant skeletons and skeletal beasts, but by trusting in his faith, he had persevered and arrived here. The Rite of Kindling was surely nearby. Treading carefully in the water, he jogged further into the cavern. Small, baby sized skeletons burst from the ground, but Leeroy dispatched them simply by dragging Grant along the floor and crushing them. How had skeletons so small got here? Why were they so small? Had he just killed the remains of children? Trying not to think too hard about it, he followed a ramp upwards towards another cave. Venturing in, he saw only a hole that led to another cavern. But before he could take another step, a bright red curved sword, jutted out of the ground in the chamber below, warning him to stay away.

There was only one being who could have access to such a weapon. And then Leeroy's heart sank. Knowing the upper echelon politics of the Church, he knew he could not attack the Gravelord. Nito did not bother with the outside world or matters of the other deities. He simply wanted to spread death and disease. However, death was sacred to the Church. If undead kept dying, then they would feed the bonfires with humanity, preserving the Age of Fire. There had to be someone to keep death in check.

It was a fragile system that desperately tried to maintain the god's power. Nito represented the disparity that the Age of Fire was built on. If Nito cared not for the outside world, he would not just hand Leeroy the Rite. And now, everything hit him at once.

He was meant to fail. Given an impossibly heavy hammer, a shield that was a shadow of its former self, old armour and being sent alone. It was simply a plan to dispose of him. Of he did somehow get the Rite, then the Way of White would have gained a powerful tool. If he died, they were rid of a cursed clergyman. He had been lied to and deceived all along by the very people who claimed to be the gods' mouthpiece.

By now, they would assume he was dead. They would send more undead, more victims to be killed. Some might even make it as far as Leeroy. He slumped down, feeling utterly defeated. The small sack dropped from his belt, and several cracked red eye orbs fell from it. _These heinous objects should be disposed of, _Leeroy thought. But then he had a different idea. _Some undead might make it as far as me. _

One betrayal doesn't reverse a lifetime of religious doctrine, and Leeroy only thought to protect Nito. If he died, the foundations of the Church would fall from underneath them all. He clasped the orb, and dug his fingers into the broken eye.

* * *

Leeroy sat in the chamber, his will all but broken. He had spent all the orbs, travelling across time to protect the Lord of Death. Now he had nothing left. He was content to sit and die, a failure for the world to remember. _Paladin Leeroy, _he thought, _the paladin who failed. _Surely he was near hollowing now, and then he would be naught but a blight to the world.

Alas, some fight returned to him. He would die with a weapon in hand, for the gods! He would return to the Giant's Tomb and continue fighting until he fell, slaying all in the name of Gwyn, Flann, Lloyd, McCloyf and all the other deities.

No, he would march the other way. Straight for the Gravelord. He would retrieve the Rite of Kindling, and purge the Church of all its corruption. He would ensure the purity of the gods was restored as was in the days of Bishop Havel. Newly resolute, Leeroy leapt down the hole.

Several skeleton warriors threw themselves at him, but Leeroy put them to rest easily, his mail deflecting their blows with ease. Then Nito limbered up. Leeroy charged him, ducking under a sword stab and hacked at his skinny legs. They didn't give way, but the Gravelord was stunned for a second, as Leeroy gave a relentless onslaught. He used Wrath of the Gods to keep his sword strokes at bay and damage him, as well the special power of Grant. He barely paused for breath and did not bother to block as the strokes slid along his armour, sometimes giving his minor cuts and bruising his arms. But nothing could stop Leeroy now, as he sensed the Gravelord was weaken.

The Death Lord made a vertical swipe that caught Leeroy in the shoulder, making it about an inch into his arm. He had to drop Grant for a second and cry in pain as blood seeped from the new cut. But only for a second. Embodied with the power of the divine, he continued swiping, putting all his force into his blows. The Gravelord crouched down on his haunches, curling into a ball. Leeroy was sure this was an indication of him being near death and hacked away still. He did not notice the light gathering around Nito's body.

Suddenly, Nito reared up and released a toxic energy that threw Leeroy right off his feet and ten feet in the air. He hit the nearby wall with his back. A cracking sound was heard as the paladin fell into a small alcove in a pool of water, a mere ragdoll at mercy to physics. His spine and neck had been shattered in five different places. Lacking the purpose to continue, Paladin Leeroy stayed there as his blood emptied around him. And was soon very, very dead.

* * *

**Note: Well I surprised myself with how quickly I finished that. I had some drafts to go off, so that shortened the time pretty drastically. Anyway, anyone who's been looking at this story and snorting "Needs more Tarkus" you only need wait a little while more! Next chapter will feature one of the most metal knights in Lordran, and a personal favourite of mine. Don't hesitate to review, I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing.**


	9. The Iron Knight

_Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto __death__-__Sun__Tzu_

As the Black Iron soldier stood before the thick iron gates, he wondered how such a proud land had become a place fit only for undead. Of course, he knew the answer. The Siege of Lordran it was called, a mighty name for an incredibly one sided affair.

Once the undead curse appeared, it took advantage of an area with a significant number of unused corpses. The bodies of New Londo that had washed up on dry land were the first to be claimed, but their despair and drained humanity had driven them utterly mad, and there was little purpose to their lives. It was rumoured that the bodies of those that were trapped under the water returned as tortured souls who cannot be harmed.

Then, the outer wall of Lordran was besieged by the spare undead spilling from the human kingdoms. The workers were constantly repairing this section of the wall, but alas the undead found no way through. Lordran brought its undoing upon itself, as ages of waste pouring from the sewers manifested itself in the moat. Coupled with the constant decaying cadavers of undead, this created a foul and toxic swamp that unleashed waterborne disease, horribly disfiguring the workers, who in turn became undead, and other unspeakable creatures. It was aptly named Blighttown. A healer supposedly went to help the inhabitants, but no word came back and 'Blighttown' was sealed off.

Next, with supply lines cut off and crops failing, Lordran began to run scarce of food. It wasn't long before some starving peasants took to cannibalism in the sewers, forming secret blood cults where only the most heartless were spared from starvation, the spares being sold on black markets. The epidemic worsened down there, as rats and worse made their way closer and closer towards the surface. The humans used as food were often fleeing workers from the wall, and thus were contaminated. The food that people thought was saving them was actually killing them.

This soon evolved into a plague, forcing men to kill their neighbours and barricade infected in their homes as it spread to the lower area of the Burg. Torch wielding 'Cleaners' patrolled the streets with a draconic rule, making a law unto themselves and self-entitling the power to execute infected on the spot. Great pyres were made for piles of sickened, as the Cleaners used dogs to sniff put the infirmed. Thieves' guilds soon overran the populace, robbing from their former friends and living in a state of martial law. This whole area was quarantined and sealed, leaving no hope for those left inside.

More undead came from the human kingdoms and spilled over the now largely unmanned walls. The Burg was an urban battlefield for a time as the common people became militia and tried to beat back undead alongside experienced soldiers. Unfortunately, undead don't stay down, and their number only swelled. Weapons that untrained masses could use were in high demand, and so the firebomb became a weapon of choice, as the fire easily peeled apart the shambling corpses. Eventually, that fell as well.

The local church was a refuge for those who tired to find asylum with the gods, but alas, it was not designed to be particularly defendable, and the undead poured here as well. Several Balder knights were amongst the resistance, being forced to fight against hollowed brothers. The undead climbed under the bridge, and under the gate forcing their way into the parish. That was when the Great Armament was assembled, and here they stood. No human could survive in Lordran, and so it has become a land of undead.

Havel's Fortress had been gutted and completely repurposed with only the outside keeping its appearance. It was now Sentinel's Fortress, or Sen's Fortress as it had already been called, and served as a test to Anor Londo, the fortress being the only entrance. A prophecy was heard all around the human world, and the nations of Berenike and Balder had decided to force their way into the Land of the Gods. The city had once been open to all, but the gods closed it up as threats amounted around them. Those who wanted entry would have to pass this test, a proving ground so only the best may enter the sunlight city.

Tarkus stood alongside Knight King Rendal, the leader of the expedition. About two hundred undead men stood behind him, but of course the knights of Berenike stood at the front. Further still were the Paradons, Tarkus' own set of troops who distinguished themselves with plate armour and visors on their helms. Tarkus stood heavier clad still, iron forged so hot it stayed black and was incredibly heavy. No man but Tarkus had been able to do more than walk in it, and so he was one of the prominent commanders of this attack. And yet he still held the great beast of a sword beside him. It was nearly as tall as he, with a fat blade that seemed to defy the rule of most swords and make it unwieldy. Yet Tarkus could hold it in a single hand, swinging it at seemingly impossible speeds. Its weight allowed it to utterly crush his opponents and shatter common armour. Unlike many of the leaders alongside him, he had served with common soldiers and in the ranks, where things were messy and green boys learnt that war wasn't poetic.

A simple battering ram stood before the portcullis, and Balder knights with grappling hooks stood on either side of the gate. King Rendal turned to see the forces behind him, awkwardly crammed onto the bridge were only two abreast could stand, the men lining up as far back as the church. The Paradons stood on the small area before the fortress, densely packed like the soldiers behind him. "I never much liked attacking buildings." The man beside Tarkus moaned, Willas a member of his own troop.

"Because you can walk around an area that you have no knowledge of and run into a vast number of well-armed enemies?" Tarkus replied in a gruff voice.

"No." Willas whined. "The kitchens never serve me. I'm hungry after all this fighting and instead of food, I get 'Who the fuck are you?', 'How did you get in here?' and 'Ah, help! He's gonna rape me!'" Despite himself, Tarkus couldn't help but chuckle. Willas was always providing dry comments and pessimistic, dark humour. After the little exchange, Tarkus focussed on the task at hand. Rendal raised a hand with a rapier within it and brought it down in a swift motion, the signal to begin the attack.

The ram thundered against the gates. _Boom. _The hooks were thrown up, catching the battlements and allowing the more lightly armoured to climb to the top. _Boom. _A unanimous roar went up, a cry that kept in time with the battering ram. _Boom. _Weapons were held high in the air, as Tarkus adjusted the grip in his hand, moving it closer to the hilt. The fighting would likely be close-quarters, so he wanted more manoeuvrability and to keep his shield in his other hand. _Boom. _His Paradons stood behind him, as ready as him for the promise of immediate combat. Only now did Tarkus feel utterly calm, where other men were frantic and adrenaline filled, he felt at home, like combat was the only place where he truly knew what he was doing. He had no illusions as to brutality, he had seen and felt horrors that make most men curl up and cry and that there was no glory in killing your fellow man, but there will always be wars, soldiers to fight them and kings to wage them, so the best might as well do it.

The last crack of the ram made a sharper noise, and the grating of iron. The portcullis had a hole punched through it, the metal bent back around a black, gaping orifice. Tarkus, in full battle dress, leapt through the gap, first one into the breach. The room he arrived in was large with pillars on either side, creating a clear path that led to steps. It was populated by at least a dozen towering man-serpents, creatures that looked as if a human had had a snake strapped to its head. They all reared up, prepared for the soldiers that were besieging the fortress.

The nearest one charged for Tarkus, who almost laughed at its recklessness. He shouldered his shield and let the snake-man hit it, absorbing the impact and then deftly flipping it over his shoulder. He immediately followed with a wide swing that kept the snakes at a good distance, his sword nicking blades and shields of the serpents that got too close. Tarkus heard a hiss to his left and made a strong lunge in the general direction of the sound, quickly strapping his shield to his back to protect from strikes from behind and two handing his greatsword for maximum reach. He hit a soft and fleshy resistance before bracing his feet and pushing forward, skewering the snake warrior. He lifted the corpse right off the ground and made sure it was limp as it slid down the blade and then flung it towards the other defenders.

It hit a group of them and stunned them for a second, which was all the time Tarkus needed. He rushed forward in full plate and lifted his greatsword high above his head, bringing it down on the closest serpent. It hit it just shy of the neck, embedding in its shoulder. But it didn't stop there. The momentum of the sword brought it down with such a force that it went down to the serpent's waist, almost cleaving it into two pieces. Tarkus yanked the weapon out, letting the carcass flop to the floor, but not before it hung there for a moment, mere meat flagging in the air. The gap had created almost two separate entities, the smaller side lolling around like jelly. The carcass 'wobbled' for a second and hit the ground rather softly.

Its comrades seemed unabated by the incredibly brutal way in which their fellow soldier had been slaughtered and continued their attack. His Paradons were now through the breach, delivering a coup de grace to the snake-man on the ground that Tarkus had flipped. Several bolts whizzed past him, releasing high pitched gargles and hisses ahead of him. Tarkus turned on the last serpent, feinting to its right. It made a wild parry allowing him to slide to the left and swing his sword all the way around his body, gathering speed and slamming into the serpent's side. If the cut didn't kill it, the force of being knocked off its feet and slamming into a pillar certainly did, as a snapping sound echoed within the chamber.

More knights were piling through the gate, gradually refilling the room. Screams of those who had scaled the walls were heard above, as they had obviously come into contact with a heavier resistance than expected. _The sooner this is over, the fewer lives needed be lost. _"Stay behind me!" Tarkus growled to the troops and jogged down the only hallway before him. The atrium on the other side certainly wasn't what he expected. It was a great cavern, spikes jutting from the walls and a pool of sludge below them. The only way across was a bridge spanning at least a hundred yards that was wide enough for a single man only, which had constantly swinging pendulums along the path. He formulated a strategy quickly and relayed it to the soldiers in the entrance way. "We split into ten man teams." Tarkus bellowed. "The closest ten men formulate a squad, and we split up to explore the fortress. If you find a way out, stay there. DO NOT return into the fortress, wait for the remainder of the force to rendezvous with you. Fight with pride, die with honour." He then made a prompt salute and gestured for ten Paradons to follow him.

He made it to the first set of pendulums, which were fairly widely spaced. It was more a matter of timing and judgement than dexterity, and Tarkus was past it easily, as were the men behind him. It would have been plain sailing if there weren't four man-serpents blocking the way, as balls of lightning were being flung at them from above. Tarkus held his mighty shield before him, making sure it covered his whole body. He could have made this mass of metal even thicker, even heavier and still be able to move as easily. However, at this weight he could use it easily, moving it swiftly in every direction.

He turned to the knight behind him. "Latch under my arm and push on my shoulder. When I run, run with me, with all your force." The knight only gave a silent nod, showing the perfect trait of a soldier and obeying a command he does not understand. Tarkus took a deep breath, and sprinted at his foes. He held the shield in both hands, letting it rest against his chest. Suddenly, he broke in to a sprint, crashing into the serpent in front of him who was in mid swing. The tower shield hit it as it was off balance, and threw the snake into the mud below. The three behind him saw what was going on and braced their shields. But the force of an extra man was key, and they too were knocked of the precarious walkway. Eventually his forward momentum got the better of him, and Tarkus kept tilting towards the ground until he face planted the floor, lucky to avoid the pendulum and hit a covered path on the other side.

He stood up and saw the rest of the regiment lining up to cross the bridge. He had knocked into several silver knight statues resting on the wall, and sent a few tumbling onto the ground. He turned to his left, up a set of stairs. Another bridge was ahead of him, with more pendulums as well as a cobra styled snake-man on the other side, flinging lightning spells at the wall he had used as cover. He decided that he would have to keep this serpent fixed on him, and made a charge to distract it from the other soldiers. He avoided a pendulum swing and braced behind his shield as a jolt of electricity hit it. It spread across it and sent sparks flying through his arm. It felt like his bones were shaking and suddenly weakened, but he managed to keep a hold on the greatshield.

Tarkus banked on the fact that the snake would be vulnerable after firing a spell, and charged forward. It spread its arms wide and shrieked at him, flamberges at the ready. It raised two to block and two to strike forward, slashing to Tarkus' right. He raised his sword and blocked the strikes, quickly lashing out with his shield and striking the serpent in the face. He followed with a kick to the midriff, staggering his foe and sending it stumbling backwards onto a nearby pressure plate that was in the room behind it. Three arrows were shot in quick succession and buried themselves in the snake-man's back, all three finding its spine and killing it.

Content that the area was clear, Tarkus waited in the room and took a moment to catch his breath. The other nine men in his team caught up with him, their armour still polished and clean. "It would seem that thee has naught of use for us." One of his men jested, Valcorius judging by the red eagle emblazoned on his shoulder, and slapped Tarkus on the shoulder.

"I have broad shoulders." Tarkus replied. "They serve to bear the brunt of the burden." Only a moment later Tarkus was off again, through to the next room. There was another bridge that lead outside and a passage below that led from a raised ramp to a dead end, all inhabited by serpent-men. Tarkus reacted first, locking down the stairs leading to their walkway with his shield. The men behind him leapt down to the gathered snakes, one speared by a falling sword. Another took a shortened lucerne hammer to the arm, the point shattering right through the shield and finding soft serpent underneath. Tarkus bashed with his shield, making contact with the snake-man's equipment. He followed with a series of swipes from side to side, forcing the serpent back down the stairs. On his final swing he pretended to over extend and stumble; the man-serpent saw his opportunity and made a move to strike. Tarkus then reared up and grabbed his opponent's sword hand, stopping the blow in its tracks. Braced against it, Tarkus kicked its right leg out from under it, putting it on one knee and an incomplete splits, a leg hanging over the side. He then held his sword in two hands, bringing it diagonally across the serpent's face and then back against its chest.

Two red valleys had been cut into it and it was dead instantly. The Paradons with him were pushing corpses into a pile, thankfully none of them human. He now had a choice of going up the ramp or outside. He decided the ramp was the way to go. He stood under the raised wall that was about ten feet high. Giving his men a leg up, they grabbed the ledge and were upon it one by one. When only Tarkus was left, they lent a hand and pulled him up, two of them required to pull all the combined weight of soldier and armour.

A short walk later and they were at a device that was pushing boulders down a ramp. Tarkus believed it lead outside. "We must clear the way for the others." One of the men stated as another boulder went tumbling down a separate ramp. Tarkus acted quickly and surveyed the contraption. There was a lever on the side of the block of stone, and he saw it faced away from the direction the boulders were being pushed. He brought it round ninety degrees so that it fell harmlessly out of a broken ramp that led to the forest floor below.

To his right would only take them back were they came, so it was either down another ramp or through a doorway. The other ramp was designed for boulders, so that was likely an obstacle that needed overcoming on the way here, so he took the doorway, his Paradons right behind him. Four holes were cut into the wall, and a raised square of ground before it. Tarkus stamped on the pressure plate sending three lots of four arrows thundering into the wall opposite. Content that all d been used up after a hollow clicking noise from the contraption, he walked tentatively down the hallway. Following it round, there was another bridge of pendulums, but not before two more serpent guards. He backed off into a wider part of the corridor as two Paradons arrived by his side and locked their shields alongside his. The snake-men crashed into the stout shield wall, going shoulder first, trying to break apart the formation. The shields held and the knights pushed back, forcing the snakes off their defence. Now exposed, they were easily cut apart leaving warm stains on the walls and slippery entrails on the floor.

Tarkus made a point of not stepping on their carcasses, if his boots were covered in blood it would be like walking on fresh ice. Friction was probably his best friend when walking these bridges. The pendulums on this one were tightly backed, with little room for a stopping point in between. He would have to run past all four at once. Before he could begin, a scream went up from below him. He took a single step on the platform and could see the rest of the fortress below him. On one of the walkways, four Balder knights were sandwiched in between several man-serpents, with pendulums swinging all around them. One of them backed away and was caught by one of the thick steel axes.

They weren't especially sharp but came down with incredible force, and it struck the knight in the shoulder. It dug under the gap in his armour and came right through his arm. Unfortunately for the knight, it didn't rip his arm off, and even worse, he remained conscious throughout the whole ordeal. He was flung back and forth like a dog's toy, legs flailing as his body was completely exposed to the mercy of inertia. He was hollering all the while, filling the cavern with pained cries that strained his voice so hard it sounded like grating metal. After a few more turns, his arm couldn't bear any more of the force, and was hewn off, rising almost as high as the platform Tarkus was stood upon. The remainder of the man's body fell to the sludge below, still screaming. Dark shapes moved along the floor and only seconds later everything was silent. The rest of the Balder knights had been killed, the bodies decorations for the bland bridge.

The more time they wasted, the more men who would die. Tarkus sprinted into the flying blades and skidded along the floor at the last hurdle, charging for the other side so that the knights behind him could advance safely. Indeed, at least five greatsword wielding serpents stood in the entrance way to the next room. Tarkus was able to pre-empt their attacks. He had observed their way of fighting in the earlier parts of the fortress and saw that they were incredibly aggressive and paid no heed to strategy when they saw an enemy. He planted his feet firmly on the bridge and reached for his own monster of a weapon. He made no move forward, instead swinging his sword in a figure of eight in front of him. Keen to see him disembowelled, the serpents rushed towards him, one at a time as the bridge could fit no more.

Some went with shields raised and some charged in. One even tried to dodge. Tarkus ensured the result was all the same, five and half foot of metal crashing into them and either slicing them in half or knocking they off the bridge. Walking into the room, instinct told him up was the way to go. He took a moment of respite and eyed the stairs to his left, as one of his knights sprinted up the stairs as if hollowing would come up and pinch his arse. Tarkus made a move to follow him and saw one of the spellcaster serpents being beaten around by a heavy mace, its face gradually getting more misshapen and softer with each blow.

It wasn't long before he was literally flogging a dead snake and Tarkus had to place a calm and reassuring hand on his shoulder. He stopped immediately and stared at his commanding officer. "Sorry sir." He uttered, his voice hoarse and terse. "After dodging flying fucking blades I needed to vent my frustration on something." Tarkus only gave a slow nod that meant he understood completely. If it meant he would be more steadfast for the coming trials, then Tarkus had no objection.

Following the stairs to the top, he saw the thinnest bridge they had come across yet. It wasn't even wide enough to walk normally, he would have to place one foot before the other. This was further complicated by another serpent mage stood on a platform, ready to fry them after one step. He wouldn't be able to make it down this walkway without losing at least someone if that snake-man stayed there.

Tarkus thought on his feet, and broke the first rule of combat. He threw his weapon away. Well, not his weapon. It was far too cumbersome and lacked aerodynamics. He plucked the mace from the fellow knight's hand, and leant out from behind the wall. Flicking his wrist as he flung his arm, the mace spun round crudely and smacked the serpent straight on its nose. Stunned and bloodied, it grabbed its face and took a step back, right off the platform. The last Tarkus saw of it, arms were flailing and its tongue was sticking out, hissing all the way down.

Tarkus took slow steps towards the set of four pendulums. They were once again packed tightly, but were more out of phase. By the time the first had stopped swinging, the fourth was already there. How were they to bypass this? Sunlight could be seen from the door on the other side. Had they come so far to fall at the final hurdle? Tarkus was resolved to not let them fail, they cannot fail after all the sacrifice. What would they tell the families of the men who fell? _Sorry we tried, we gave up halfway through and they died for nothing. _He wouldn't allow that to happen.

Walking, sauntering almost, Tarkus went forth, and his strength seemed to shroud him as a shield and no blade would touch him. He got to the fourth pendulum, swinging from his right, and leant off the platform and into the gap below, shield before him. His fall was broken by the pendulum crashing into his shield, pushing him back as his feet scaled and scrambled to stay on the walkway. But the blade was stopped dead in its tracks.

It was as if the gods had reached out and grabbed it. Tarkus was straining but the weight was held, and he called to his men. "Never will there be a better opportunity! Go, to Anor Londo!" They were all up in arms, roaring their leader on as they ran forward to push past him. They had to grab his chest and almost crawl over him, but one by one they got past. Last to go was Valcorius, who was now only inches from where Tarkus was standing. But the weight seemed to be growing, somehow, and Tarkus' feet were sliding ever backwards. All too soon, one of his boots met only thin air and one of legs fell from underneath him. He fell to his left, collapsing on the platform on the other side in an undignified sprawl. A cry escaped from his mouth as the pendulum fell forward with impossible velocity.

Valcorius was still smiling when it speared his face. The pointed end went right through his visor and came out the other side of his helmet. Tarkus hadn't thought it was that sharp, but here it had just gone through an inch of steel and bone. It lifted his whole body off the floor, dragging him around. The point was so densely wedged into his skull that he simply hung on the end like a hanging ornament. His feet dragged along the ground as it swung past, dripping blood in light drops, occasionally bits of brain and bone would fall also. The whole party was in stunned silence.

There was no respite to grieve, as the room suddenly exploded with foes, serpents pouring from the doorway and racing towards them. Tarkus turned and ran through the exit with his soldiers, yelling commands at the remainder of the party. Everyone was in a heightened state of adrenaline and Tarkus needed them to regain their composure. He bunkered his greatshield in the doorway and told his men to do the same. Four shields were arranged in such a way that they covered every available gap, an impenetrable gate.

After a few minutes, the serpents were pounding on said gate, and were likely to break it apart after a short while. Tarkus and the other knights made space and shoved their weapons through the shields, poking away at an enemy they couldn't see. There arms were burning and aching, but they carried on still. Eventually, the bangs became fewer and weaker until they stopped completely. Tarkus shifted his shield and broke the firm wall to see a massacre before him, serpents dead and dying lying on the floor and their shields caked in red. Content that the area was safe for the while, Tarkus permitted his men to take a well-earned rest under the sun, just outside the entranceway. There seemed to be no immediate threats.

Tarkus was furious with himself for losing a soldier. Nothing compared to the loss he had felt in previous campaigns, that was an area he very wary to dwell upon, but it hurt him all the same. "We may encounter worse." One of the knights said and sat down beside him. He removed his helmet and Tarkus saw it was Letholdus, his first lieutenant. Tarkus did the same, revealing a grizzly face with chiselled and strong features. There was no padding underneath his armour, his skin was like leather and needed no softening clothing. "Well I'm fucking the Princess of Sunlight if you're not the fallen god of war himself, Tarkus!" He cried jovially, glad that they were back in fresh air. "Is there nothing that you fear?"

"Nothing I have met so far." Tarkus grunted, taking a sip of water from a leather flask.

He adopted a more serious tone. "You're a fool then. Fear can be useful my friend, you're missing out on a vital asset. One day that may get you killed."

"If I find something that can kill me than I shall stand right back up and tip my hat to them." He said it with a completely flat tone. He turned to his comrade who shook his head with a wry smile and a disbelieving snort. "I might hold you to that if I knew you were serious. I don't think I know anyone who takes war more seriously, and perhaps knows the most about it, wouldn't you agree?"

"War will never change." Tarkus growled. "We may find a way to kill another on the other side of the world with a snap of our fingers or thinking hard enough. But the generals will always make the shit decisions, the soldiers will always get the blame and the commoners will piss themselves into a corner and then it's too late. It's almost like humans perform better when everything's already fucked. And then we all think our ideology is the true ideology and force it upon all others, in that broken way the human mind works. We will keep trying to break our fellow man, but you can't break a man like you break an animal. The harder you beat him, the stronger he will fight back. And some poor farmer's boy will get stabbed for it. So, yes, I would say I know quite a bit about conflict."

Letholdus smiled again and broke into a laugh. "For a big brute you are surprisingly intelligent. I guess I of all people should know that most of all." He stood up and stretched his arms, walking off towards some of the other Paradons.

Tarkus eyes the mountain that sat in front of him, its height and strong presence a constant reminder that it was another obstacle in their way. How many more lives would they spend to purchase a glimpse of Anor Londo. What would they do when they get there? Would the inhabitants be friendly? Tarkus had the nagging feeling that he was being played for a fool, chasing a carrot that was being dangled in front of him. By whom was still something he didn't know and would very much like to.

A clattering of steel and ragged screams made him leap to his feet and grab the hilt of his sword. He was about to stand in the doorway to the dungeon when an armoured knight of Berenike burst through it. He almost ran over the side when one of his knights yanked at his shoulder. His armour was stained and dented, certain parts missing or broken. The right side of his face was bloody from a gash above his eyebrow and the ornament on his helmet was gone. His face was actually quite young and handsome, a stubbly beard on his jaw that he had likely grown just to feel and look older. He might even still be a teen.

His eyes however, looked worn and rabid, both haggard and incredibly alert at the same time, likely seeing scarring sights. This was probably his first taste of conflict. Talk about being chucked in at the deep end. "You alright lad?" Tarkus asked him, lowering his sword to make himself appear less threatening. "If you are unhurt, ready yourself. We need as many men as we can get." To his surprise his brow furrowed and eyes turned angry.

"How dare you!" The boy cried indignantly. "I am a lord's son, and you shall address me properly. You didn't even come back to help, and my guards were killed by those fiends. You cannot treat me in such a way when you just got lucky and here unscathed. I had to suffer in that hellhole and here you stand acting so ind-"

The group may have gasped if Tarkus had let them react. He would allow for his condition, but Tarkus knew only one way to react to insubordination. He may be noble blood, but he was a soldier in this army, and therefore Tarkus was his officer. His hand shot out like a crossbow bolt, and grabbed at the youth's throat. Without even straining, he lifted him off the ground, man, armour and sword. Anger turned to fear as the menacing gaze of his helmet pierced him.

"You. Are just some kid. You may talk about war, quote strategies and tell me what to do in a certain situation, but you've never been trapped under a growing sense of desperation as the comrades you have been taught are your defence drop like mayflies in mating season. You may talk about death, but you've never truly killed something, seeing life slip from their eyes, realising that you have just ended a living, thinking creature. They had a mother, a father, a child, a spouse, a cousin. How they feel their death, that that life will never continue and you are the one that has caused misery to so many for a trivial reason that allows high lords, like you, to exploit me and every other soldier for their own selfish reasons. You may talk about loss, but you've never held your best friends head in your hands and seen him gasp his dying breath, splattering blood in your face. You expect something heroic, a strong speech, yet in truth it is disgustingly undignified while their mind forgets all composure and goes to instinct and hopelessness and sorrow. All I see is some shit scared, arrogant prick who has no true life experience. I don't presume your troubles, so don't fucking presume mind. And now you know I'm not your commander because I can swing a big fucking sword." There was nothing but silence around him as he was still holding the lad in one hand. Their commander had never opened up much, if at all, and they always knew that he bottled up some of the stress inside him. But now they knew the effect of innumerable campaigns and countless conflicts, that Tarkus had always lead men to the brink of despair and out again, and held their problems to himself.

He let him drop to the floor and gasp for breath. "We better go and fight, wouldn't want you lords to strain yourselves."

"Commander, what of reinforcements?" One of his Paradons cried.

"Fuck reinforcements. They're all dead. If there is anyone left, then we clear the path for them." Without another word, Tarkus shouldered his sword and went forth. Only seconds later a huge black sphere was flung from the roof, casting a dark shadow right above Willas. Tarkus reacted first and grabbed his gorget. He flung the knight in front of him and sent him sprawling just as the ball landed and exploded in flame. "Shame you grabbed me sir." Willas sighed. "I'll probably die far more painfully now. Maybe gravity, I've heard that's a whore." But Tarkus was already up and flight of stairs, aiming for the summit of the fortress. His soldiers were struggling to keep up with him as the Black Iron Knight was filled with newfound determination. He had reached the final level when another group of man-serpent guards stood in the way. "How bloody many of you are there!" Tarkus bellowed, charging into the fray. He was swinging his blade madly as his knights backed him up, exerting so hard he barely saw what was happening.

His foe dropped dead giving him a moment to get his bearings. That was when he saw the snake sneaking up on one of his men. Without a second thought he threw himself under the sword blow and wrapped himself around the knight and using his own body as a shield. The sword struck him hard in the back, a firm blow that dug into his armour. As far as he could tell, it hadn't pierced his vambrace but it had certainly shuddered him. With a flick of his shoulder, he hewed the snake's head off in one blow and let it drop to the floor.

With the last snake-man dead, they lowered there weapons and checked for any wounded. Tarkus couldn't see anything obvious, but it was difficult to tell whose blood was whose. He wiped some sweat from under his helmet and looked round around the room. There were several exits, but one stood out from the others. The largest archway that lead to a wide bridge. An enormous statue of over twenty feet stood there, in front of the doorway to Anor Londo. Tarkus raised a plated fist and held his sword high above his head. "Now men, to Anor Londo! To immortality!" They all responded with a resounding battle cry.

They ran forward to where the statue was standing. But as soon as they reached its legs, they saw that the doorway had been bricked up, a wall to come down and crush their dreams. But unbeknownst to them, the crushing was just about to begin. Tarkus noticed that the statue was actually wrought iron. Its arms fell down to its sides, and it turned to where the warriors were standing, revealing that it was in fact a mechanical golem. Without warning, it swung its hand down and caught a Paradon under its hand. Fingers clenched, and the knight was thrown right of the bridge as his screams got slowly quieter. They were caught in a vulnerable position, and the fight was out of their control. This could only end in disaster.

"Retreat!" Tarkus yelled, and raised his greatshield to block the way to his men. The Golem's axe scythed the air around head height, crashing in Tarkus' shield and knocking him off balance. It followed with a quick strike that thundered against his shield once again, but managed to wrap its fingers under it and flip him over, sending him arcing into the air. He crashed by the entrance way, barely conscious as another man was sliced right in two across the waist.

When Tarkus regained coherency, the Golem had returned to its resting spot and several bodies were strewn around it. Letholdus was lying next to him, short ragged breaths escaping from cracked and bloody lips. His right arm had been completely shredded as if he hadn't worn armour at all. There was only red bone with pitiful scraps of meat left. As Tarkus leaned over him, dizzy and nauseous, he turned his head and looked at his old friend. He tried to smile, but it just came out as a lopsided droop.

"I'm sorry Tarkus." He whimpered, his voice riddled with pain that made his voice sound ghostly. Tarkus could have, should have said something to just comfort him, that there was no need for apology. If anything, he was sorry for leading him to this hellhole. "I know…I know how this will end." He broke into a coughing fit that let a faint trickle of blood escape his mouth. Tarkus held his good hand and kneeled by his side. "Stay strong Letholdus. You've fought all your life, you can fight this now." Words he thought he would never say. It prompted a chuckle from Letholdus.

"I've seen it…a h-h…hundred times before Tarkus. Damn, why couldn't I…die with sword in hand?" And that's when the stern expression fell from his face and he began to cry. Here he was, this rock hard warrior, bawling like a child who's had their favourite toy taken away. "It-t-t…hurts..s-s-ssss." His body began to convulse rather violently as it desperately clung to life and blood gushed from the multiple wounds he had. Tarkus realised that by waking up, he had made him move and killed him quicker. "P-p-p-pleasssse…Tarkus." He looked into those pained eyes, and knew what he wanted. Tarkus slowly lowered his head to the ground and picked up his greatsword that was lying a few feet away. He aimed the point at his companion's neck, placing a hand tentatively on the pommel, ready to thrust. The blood on Letholdus' face was a light read as it mixed with the tears on his face. "Forgive me for…not returning home." He whispered in a strained voice that didn't seem to be aimed at Tarkus.

Tarkus put his weight on his sword and placed his friends' blade in his dead hands. He then strode back onto the bridge, bloody and broken but determined to continue where his men had failed. Or die alongside them. "Iron Tarkus and the Iron Golem." He cried, arms outstretched, daring the giant to attack. "One on one, let's settle this once and for all!" The Golem awoke and lumbered towards him. Tarkus charged and brought the sword down on its shin. To his surprise, it went about three inches in. It was good to know that his weapon could at least pierce its hide. The Golem's axe came down from above, but right on to the sturdy iron shield.

Tarkus slid under its legs and held his sword with both hands, throwing string lunges and chipping shards off its calves. An enormous hand reached down for him, perhaps to pick him up or crush him. Tarkus held the sword's point above his head and braced his arms. There was a tremendous pressure on his shoulders and arms, but he held firm. The greatsword had penetrated the giant's hand, and he needed to use all his might to yank it back out.

"Remember the names of the Paradons! Remember those that are your doom!" Tarkus yelled as he struck with another swipe that pierced its foot. "Merek!" He took a step back from a swing. "Torvan! Destrius! Francir!" Another swing. "Ashrin! Willas! Josef!" He put everything he had into a stab that went clean through the Golem's greaves so far the hilt almost touched the iron surface. Acting instinctively, Tarkus changed the grip on his sword and pushed upwards. There was so much strain that he was convinced the sword would snap. But somehow, this small human did the impossible as the behemoth tottered and wobbled. He managed to flip the Iron Golem over. "Valcorius!" He screamed as he removed his sword. "Letholdus!" He let his shield clatter to the ground, and grabbed his sword in both hands. As he ran towards the floored giant, he bellowed, and this emotionless automaton somehow knew fear. "TARKUUSS!" In full plate, he leapt into the air and brought his blade crashing down. It struck it in the core, shattering the glass and bone with comparable ease.

Tarkus stood upon the lifeless body of the golem, the sun shining an appreciative gaze upon him, making the sight miracle like, that the God of War had stepped down from the heavens to save mankind. He turned to the impassable mountain. "IS THERE NO OTHER?!" He thundered with a voice that threatened to knock Sen's Fortress to the ground. "WILL NO OTHER DARE FACE ME? IS THIS ALL MIGHTY ANOR LONDO CAN CONJURE UP?!" While his words sounded arrogant, Tarkus was in fact furious. Furious that all he had known had been destroyed chasing this ridiculous dream, this damned prophecy. He would carry on, but for the memory of the dead. Their sacrifice would not be in vain.

* * *

They were quick, Tarkus would give them that. When he had smashed the window, they had swarmed around him like bees to honey, and he had to use wide strokes to keep them at bay. They wore little more than silk, and it was like slicing through butter. The hard part was actually hitting them. Just as he thought that, one of the assailants ducked under his strike and thrust for his arm. It clanked off the thick iron without making so much as a scratch. The attacker then adopted a defensive position and held their scimitars in a cross as a blocking mechanism.

_Right, my turn, _Tarkus thought, and sent a heavy vertical strike. It cut right through the blades, the mere force shattering their arms. When the blade struck, it actually went right to their sternum, cutting two equal slices. Content that the others were dead, he climbed the ladder onto the rafters that seemed to be the only way across, barely thick enough for Tarkus' feet.

He hadn't got far before he was scissored between two of them. They both attacked simultaneously, but Tarkus swung in a great circle, cutting both of them. His foot nearly slipped and he balanced precariously on the edge. Just when he was about to recover, one of the robed fighters grabbed his leg as they fell. They were missing part of their arm, but still very much alive. Tarkus stamped his foot to shake off the warrior.

However, a section of his armour had come loose. It must have broken in Sen's Fortress, but he was sure he had checked everything upon arriving in Anor Londo. When could it have broken? Tarkus had no answer as a blade ran across his heel, severing the tendon and ripping his sinew. The pain was agonising as he realised he could no longer stand. Just before he fell, he felt only ashamed. _The mighty Iron Tarkus, killed by a cripple._

The impact was unlike anything he ever felt. It was a little while before he never felt again. His spine was shattered as he bounced around inside his armour, and he lay there completely paralysed. More of these white robed rogues gathered around him, inspecting his body. Well he was not dead yet. He intended to take down as many of these white-skirted bastards as possible. When one of them lifted his arm, he grabbed for his neck, trying to strangle him or shatter him. In the end, Tarkus knocked him off balance, and crushed his head under the immense weight of his armoured arm. Well his skull still seemed intact, maybe just blunt trauma. He was literally spitting blood, in a crazed frenzy of final exertion to go down surrounded by violence.

At least he had died fighting. But what happened next astounded him. They left. They simply left him there in his own blood. "How dare you?" Tarkus howled, or tried to, it came out mostly incoherently. But what came next was clear enough. "Kill me!" He shrieked. No response.

"KILL ME!" He cried again. "GRANT ME A WARRIORS DEATH!" They didn't so much as turn round.

"Kill me!" And now he was near tears. He reached for his sword, but couldn't find it, or even brush it. He moaned, a sad and resigned sound that would have brought onlookers to tears as it signaled utter defeat. For just like Letholdus, he too had failed to die with sword in hand.

Black Iron Tarkus, the legendary warrior, killed by a force even he couldn't tame.

* * *

**Note: Paradons are not in Dark Souls, the band and all its members are completely fictional and are based on the real life Myrmidons.**

**Also, removed the Foreword because it was kind of a pointless chapter.**

**Well it's finally done, and I hope it's worth it because this is the longest chapter yet. I'm not sure who to do next, so you'll just have to wait and see. Never hesitate to point out errors or room for improvement. I hope to finish the next one before you all go hollow.**


	10. Update: Important for all readers

And when the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse rode forth, with Hell snatching at their heels, people screamed and wept at their feet.

Pestilence, his golden crown gleaming a midst the dust raised his bow, and all who were touched by it fell ill to the foulest of plagues.

Famine's scales suddenly tipped heavily revealing a deadly flail that ripped the guts of those nearby, but kept them alive so they could know the suffering of starvation.

War raised his greatsword high above his head. It was larger than any weapon previously seen and was constantly covered in blood, as was his black plate armour, its horns reaching high into the sky. The red demon swung his weapon in massive sweeps, and nothing could block it.

Death's pale horse stood impatiently. No one could escape his gaze, and his scythe pierced all striking fear into the hearts of the living and damnation into the hearts of the dead.

Finally, the last horseman stepped forward. The Oinodemon he was called, and even the Four cowered in his presence. Now everyone knew the Apocalypse had finally come.

Everyone had visions of pain and anguish as he projected images of his spiritual face that none could look upon and not weep into the minds of all.

However, in his frenzy, a square object fell from his saddle, and hit the ground. It made little noise, but somehow all was silent and everyone could tell something monumental had happened. The Last Horseman took the object in both hands and flipped it open, its glossy and mirrored glass front smashed and shredded.

"Ah, bollocks!" He cried and everyone could see that he had smashed his precious Windows Surface. He then turned to Death and said "Could I possibly borrow you're laptop for a second mate?"

Of course, he dared not refuse the Oinodemon and handed it to him graciously. A few Google searches later and he had found the page he was looking for. "Hello, Microsoft Surface Support, how may I help?"

"Yeah, it says here that I have to pay a hundred and fifty quid ($241.09) to get it repaired, but I still have hardware warranty."

"It says right there that it doesn't cover physical damage."

"Yeah, but what is a hardware issue if not physical damage?"

"Listen, I don't write the bloody thing, I just work here."

"Fine, fine". The Last Horseman sadly took the splintered remains of his Surface, which he is very emotionally attached to, and packaged it in old Amazon packaging, before dropping it of a UPS.

In his anger, he then smited the world.

THE END

**Ok, basically what I'm trying to say guys is that my Surface, which I do all my writing on, got smashed by some guy who can't see that there is a bag on the floor at my sixth form. Anyway, it'll probably be about a week until it gets back from the service and the next chapter will be on hold until then. I sent this from a friends computer, holding back his night out by 15 minutes.**

**Sorry, but it definitely wasn't my fault for leaving it in an area of high traffic though. **

**If you feel sorry for/worship me, then feel free to wire me some money to cover the cost of repairs. Just email me your bank account details to xX_NigerianPrince_Xx .uk**


	11. Another bloody update?

OK, I'm not dead. At least I don't think so.

I hate having to post updates like this instead of just giving you new chapters, but I felt it necessary. It's been a pretty turbulent time recently and I have a lot of stuff going on (I wasn't even in the country for two weeks) so I haven't made any progress since the last update. But I hope to be back in the saddle soon and post another chapter that has actual content.

I will aim to have a better book turnover than George R.R. Martin.


End file.
